


Elephants in the Lift

by lori (zakhad)



Series: Captain and Counselor, the revised versions [3]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-23 23:09:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17089499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: The story that launched a very long series, revised. Original remains posted on my AO3 account. But it's been more than a decade and I have grown up quite a lot in my tastes, and hopefully my writing skills have improved.Formatting corrected, more context and details filled in here and there. Dialogue edited. Fewer dashes, fewer incomplete thoughts and ambiguities, more context.





	1. Chapter 1

_I've got nothing on my mind: Nothing to remember,_  
_Nothing to forget. And I've got nothing to regret,_  
_But I'm all tied up on the inside,_  
_No one knows quite what I've got;_  
_And I know that on the outside_  
_What I used to be, I'm not anymore._

 _You know I've heard about people like me,_  
_But I never made the connection._  
_They walk one road to set them free_  
_And find they've gone the wrong direction._

 _But there's no need for turning back_  
_'Cause all roads lead to where I stand._  
_And I believe I'll walk them all_  
_No matter what I may have planned._

 _Can you remember who I was? Can you still feel it?_  
_Can you find my pain? Can you heal it?_  
_Then lay your hands upon me now_  
_And cast this darkness from my soul._  
_You alone can light my way._  
_You alone can make me whole once again._

 _We've walked both sides of every street_  
_Through all kinds of windy weather._  
_But that was never our defeat_  
_As long as we could walk together._

 _So there's no need for turning back_  
_'Cause all roads lead to where we stand._  
_And I believe we'll walk them all_  
_No matter what we may have planned._

Crossroads, Don McLean

 

* * *

 

Jean-Luc Picard strolled into the lounge and glanced about at the scant group of patrons. Though the current off duty lounge served the same function and was located in the same place as Ten Forward had been, without Guinan it just wasn't the same. Neither was it as popular. He didn't often come here himself, now that Will Riker and Beverly Crusher had moved on to other positions. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been there.

He noticed Deanna Troi at once.  He hadn't seen her all day -- she'd had appointments and all was quiet on the bridge, as they had another day's travel to go before reaching their next diplomatic assignment. She sat looking out a viewport, her usual cup of chocolate in front of her, and something about her shouted loneliness. She was out of uniform, wearing a loose off-white dress instead of her usual form-fitting attire, and she'd turned her hair loose from its usual confinement on the back of her head, the curls tumbling down around her face and across her shoulders. She wouldn't be sitting by herself if all were normal.

Of course, if things were normal, he wouldn't have had to come looking for her. Picard nodded to the single waiter present and crossed the room, weaving between the tables. "Mind if I join you?"

She graced him with an affectionate smile as she turned, but it took nothing away from the tired expression that lingered behind it. "Of course not, Captain."

As he sat across from her, he remembered all those times he'd seen Riker in that seat, in Ten Forward, laughing with the counselor. "Are you sure I'm not intruding? I don't want you to make allowances just because I outrank you."

"Don't be silly."

The waiter swung by and took his request, and after he departed Picard noticed Deanna had returned to her stargazing, most of her smile lost to musings.

"I am intruding."

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm not very good company." She tore her eyes from the stars and they rested on him only briefly before her gaze slipped into her cup. "I miss them."

"We knew it would happen sometime."

Deanna shook her head. This was the saddest he'd ever seen his counselor -- she never showed this side of her in public, always kept up a professional demeanor, and that she allowed herself to slip into this state now worried him. Were his suspicions true, then?

"As long as it was sometime, it was all right. Dr. Mengis annoys me."

He nodded, smiling in commiseration. "He isn't exactly sympathetic, is he? But he was willing to serve, and the war didn't leave us with a surplus of personnel." Recovery from the Dominion War was agonizingly slow, in fact. Starfleet had started to recruit medical staff from civilian populations, giving them an abbreviated Academy curriculum to get doctors and counselors on starships in adequate numbers in hopes of addressing the needs of veteran officers before people started retiring.

"I understand why Beverly left, professionally speaking," Deanna said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I don't understand it personally. I don't understand why she doesn't call me more often."

His tea arrived. Sipping occupied his mouth, and postponed the inevitable. He and Deanna hadn't discussed his last few conversations with Beverly, though he'd thought about initiating a formal counseling session about it. He wondered now if he weren't partially incorrect. He'd thought Deanna's melancholy might be the cumulative effect of a year without Will Riker aboard. Now he wondered if it might be a combination of the absence of Beverly and Will -- and why would Beverly not have anything to do with Deanna?

"You don't understand how she could leave me, you mean. That tells me you don't always sense what goes on around you."

Deanna bit her lip and seemed surprised by the admission. But she spoke with the same even candor as he. "That's true, I don't. It depends on a lot of factors, including how hard I try to ignore someone. And I'm shocked that you're speaking so openly about it here in the lounge."

He glanced to and fro -- there was no one sitting close by, and those at the tables farther from them were involved in their own conversations, not paying attention to them. "You've always been aware of how Beverly and I felt for each other, I'm sure. I appreciate that you never said a word to anyone. I'm also certain you know it's been difficult for me these past months since she left the ship. But it's in the past. These things take time."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I've been thinking about her a lot. I miss having someone I can talk to. I even tried talking to Data." Jean-Luc stifled outright laughter, managing to turn it into a single guffaw, but she smiled at him for it. "I know, it was a silly thing to do. As much progress as he's made, it did me as much good as it would have to talk to Sorek." The Vulcan officer in sciences was even less talkative than others of his species tended to be.

"So why didn't you come talk to me in the first place?" Deanna asked. Some of her weariness seemed to be lifting. There was that, at least -- and Jean-Luc realized he felt a little lighter as well.

"I suppose because I always think of you as counselor, and sometimes one simply needs a friend."

"And because it alarms you that I can sense things about you that you'd rather not disclose?"

"Or perhaps because you have this subtle way of teasing me about things like my anxiety, or the ludicrous situations we sometimes have to endure? Though your teasing never has teeth, unlike Will's -- " He broke off and took a mouthful of tea.

"It's all right, Captain." Deanna leaned across the table and touched his arm. "Will and I parted as friends, just as we worked together for years as friends, and just as I miss him as a friend. I know some people thought we were more than that."

"You don't usually fill in the blanks this way. You at least pretend you don't know I feel guilty, or embarrassed."

"Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"You know it does, but you don't have to go back to asking the obvious questions, really. I know you can read me well when you want to." He picked up his tea again despite having just put it down, pausing with it hovering just under his chin. "I wonder sometimes what it must be like. How it must feel, to always have to keep your guard up. We force you to ride around in a ship full of emotional chaos. It's unfair."

Deanna finished her chocolate and set aside the cup. "Is that why you allowed me to get away with non-regulation attire for so long? You took pity on my unequal situation?"

He sniffed and turned away to examine the nearest empty table.

"What are you hiding?"

This was amusing her, a not-entirely-unacceptable thing; at least it provided some relief from her earlier mood. If laughing at him helped, so be it. "Actually. . . ."

"You know, if I really extend the effort, if I really try hard enough, I might be able to read the thoughts of someone who is very familiar to me -- "

"Actually, the non-regulation uniforms were an indulgence."

"Well, yes, but -- you're not talking about indulging me, are you?"

He let realization finish dawning in her eyes before he started to laugh. Heads turned at the unusual scene -- captain and counselor, cracking up in the lounge, him dodging the napkin she wadded and threw.

"You did that on purpose," she sighed, wiping her eyes with a fingertip. "You deliberately _felt_ at me to get me to believe that."

"That particular emotion isn't something I would have to fake."

He knew she would have sensed the same basic attraction from him as she had from many others aboard. Yet verbalizing it had an immediate affect on her; she blinked, flinching as though he'd reached across the table and pushed her. Her eyes darted around frantically and settled at last on the table between them.

"Would you like a refill? I'm buying." An old joke -- no one bought anything, here. It was a lame attempt at finding his footing, and it did no good whatsoever. In fact, Deanna ducked her head, winced, and looked as though she might flee.

"I'm sorry. I should go."

"It isn't you," she exclaimed, with forced determination. "Will used to use that line, incessantly. I'm sure many people do. I'm just not accustomed to seeing you this -- relaxed."

"That's one word for it. I suppose I was taking too much for granted. I must be tired."

"You are, somewhat," she said. "But tense. It's been a while since your last leave, Captain." The observation stunned him momentarily. A few seconds before, they had been talking as one friend to another, then suddenly rank. She met his eyes, and he thought she might be trying to tell him something.

"Why don't we go take a walk somewhere other than the _Enterprise_? On the holodeck -- we can discuss something other than duty." He put down his cup. "You can tell me how your mother's doing, and I'll give you the latest statistical information on my vineyards."

She kept staring at him, though her expression shifted to something akin to pathos. For a moment, he thought she might refuse, but then she shrugged and got up. They meandered to the turbolift, getting odd looks from passing crew members, and Jean-Luc realized why only as the lift doors closed.

"Not often they see the captain and the counselor meandering," he commented. "We usually have a definite purpose in mind, a crisis on the bridge or a briefing to attend."

Deanna said nothing. A glance told him she was staring at the floor -- tense. It came to his attention that his own tension had risen, and he inhaled slowly, trying to ground himself.

"State destination," the computer put in, and he gave it deck six automatically.

"No, deck five," Deanna said. "You're thinking of the last _Enterprise_."

"Shows you how long it's been since I've been to the holodeck." It hadn't been that long, actually, but he couldn't account for why he'd chosen the wrong deck. 

She chided him with her eyes. "I think I should order you to take some leave."

"Do I have to order you to stop talking about our jobs?"

"Sorry. It's easier than not talking about it -- we seem to be doing nothing but our jobs lately."

He studied her solemnly. "Do _you_ need to talk about your job?"

"No." She gave him a fond smile. "But thank you."

They appraised each other silently for a moment. She turned away first, trying to make it seem a casual gesture.

"Why do I get the feeling we're not alone in this lift?"

"We aren't?" She playfully looked behind her, up at the ceiling, and behind him. "Seems empty to me."

"It's like we're standing with an elephant between us and not saying a word about it."

"I'm just not accustomed to this," she admitted slowly. The lift opened, and they headed for the nearest holodeck, hands behind their backs. "You always spent your off time with Beverly, or Will, or by yourself. Or with all of us at the poker game. It's hardly ever been just you and I, as friends, and nothing more. I'm just trying to redefine the parameters -- understand what's going on."

"And I have to start -- I'm sorry. Very bad form on my part."

She stopped at the door to holodeck three and stared at the controls, with a poorly-suppressed half-grin. "You tried to step out of the officer persona and approach me as a friend, expecting the professional friendship to carry over, and you end up flirting with me. As selective as you are about the women you approach, it's quite a compliment."

"What women?" He flinched as he said it. Why had he said it? Panic. Of course. He hadn't had a second thought about starting to flirt with her, and now he was on a roll, blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

"Oh, let's see -- Nella. You've already mentioned Beverly. It seems to me we spent a little time talking about Jeneice, years ago." She paused, thinking, and he didn't doubt that she could come up with a conclusive list. But she looked at him wide-eyed, and again, he recognized the escalating anxiety and that she sensed it -- probably he was radiating it at a fairly shocking level.

Picard touched the controls and took her elbow, guiding her into the holodeck. When the doors closed, he turned to her with crossed arms. "What are we doing?"

"Taking a walk?"

"No -- you said you were redefining the parameters. We should do that now, I think."

"Before things get too far out of control?" She was still gazing at him, no longer surprised. And she pulled no punches. She never had -- it was one of the things he'd come to appreciate about her.

"This isn't about control issues -- can you stop being a counselor for a moment?"

"Can you stop being a captain?"

"I thought I already had."

She put her palm to her temple and closed her eyes. "The real question is, can I stop seeing you as the captain, and can you stop seeing me as the counselor?"

"I'm afraid I started to fall into the same banter I tend to use with women I know well personally. I'm sorry if that made you uncomfortable."

"It was a little startling, that's all. You've always approached me quite professionally, either as a patient or as a captain, even when you're off duty and being neither."

"Do I get a 'do over'?"

Deanna smiled again and faced the holodeck controls. "I suppose. Where are we heading?"

"Have you ever been to France?"

"I thought you never programmed home into the holodeck."

He touched the controls, scrolled through his short list of programs, and selected one. "Things change, Deanna. Sometimes quite drastically."

The vineyard materialized, with the Picard home at the opposite end on the hill. Deanna stared at it in awe. "It's beautiful. Very unlike what I imagined. Of course, I didn't know what to imagine -- this won't remind you too much of. . . ."

"I think I've come to a point that the reminder doesn't re-open raw wounds. Robert would find this amusing, I'm sure. Jean-Luc, always looking away from home, programming it into the holodeck. I'm slowly coming full circle."

"I've thought a lot about home, too." Deanna wandered down a row, and he followed her slowly. "About Mother, especially. All her reckless hedonism, always marrying and moving on, yet I can't quit thinking that at least she's deriving some enjoyment from it."

"You aren't your mother."

"I'm not jealous, exactly. Just of the hedonistic part. I could live without all the ex-husbands," she said wryly.

Jean-Luc stifled a chuckle and glanced down at the holographic dust on his boots and pants. "I should have programmed a well-watered vineyard."

They walked on, Deanna picking grapes from the vines and grimacing when she tasted one. "You could have programmed sweeter grapes, too."

"I didn't spend much time on this. It's more of a postcard than a fantasy. The last time I used it, I spent most of my time sitting on the steps in front of the house, remembering Robert and I coming home from school to be scolded by Maman for fighting."

"Did you fight often?"

"All the time. In later years, over girls. It was so simple back then. Girls were much more easily impressed."

"Beating another boy would impress a girl?"

"I was not a particularly bright boy."

She stopped at a gap in the rows of vines, and they turned right. "I was not a particularly bright girl, nor was I pretty."

It stopped him for a second, and he resumed walking. "Oh, I doubt that."

"I could show you, if I had any of the pictures. But I would have to ask Mother for them." She didn't sound upset, or ashamed; she sounded matter-of-fact. "Why is this surprising to you?"

"You're rearranging my preconceptions."

"Preconceptions can be dangerous things. Starfleet should have taught you that by now."

"I don't think of you as a first contact situation -- though perhaps I should." Now he was back to lame jokes. Why was this so hard? He knew her well. She knew him -- but perhaps that should reassure, that she knew how nervous he was, and wouldn't be too hard on him.

"Would it be easier if I wore a costume? Maybe something with green scales or claws?" Again, something he hadn't expected her to say. She was amused, being sarcastic, and it wasn't what he was accustomed to hearing from her.

He bit his tongue, rather than respond. As they reached the end of the rows of grapevines, he walked around her, picking up the pace to lead her up the walk toward the house.

"What were you about to say?"

"Just a minute."

He stopped at the porch steps, looking down at them, then pivoted to face her as she caught up with him. "Deanna."

"Jean-Luc." She didn't smile, either. It was the first time she'd used his given name in a long, long time; she'd done so in counseling sessions, every so often, but never on duty. And that led him to remember how very long it had been since his last session.

"Can we actually be friends?" 

She crossed her arms. "That's up to you."

"Do you think it's easy, knowing that you can tell just what I'm feeling the instant I feel it? I can see you as an officer and keep myself in check. But at this moment, I'm not even sure I remember what my motives were when I sat down across the table from you. I thought they were concern for a fellow officer and friend, and an intent to help cheer her up if I could. Have I become so ship-bound and frustrated that -- "

"Jean-Luc," she said, interrupting. Having mercy on him.

"I can be better than this."

"All right." She turned and sat down on the top step, arranging the skirt around her legs, and put her foot on the second step to hug her knee. "I'm curious -- why was Beverly so angry at you when she left? If you feel like talking about that. It worried me. I've been hesitant to ask either of you about it."

He lost his voice at that. He sat down next to her with about a foot of space between them.

"Never mind," she said, after a few moments. "I shouldn't have asked."

"I wouldn't try," he said. 

"Try what?"

"I tried, years ago. After Kes-Prytt. She wouldn't. I accepted that and we have been friends all along. And somewhere along the way I managed to kill the urge to try again. She came to me when she was offered the position on the _Valiant_. She wanted to talk -- she would have turned it down, but it didn't happen as she planned between us."

"So she was angry because you didn't feel the same after all those years of putting you off? No wonder she didn't say anything to me -- that's stupid."

He blinked and looked up at her from the toes of his boots. "Stupid?" It was not what he'd expected from her, of all people.

"Stupid. Just like Will expecting me to pick up right where we left off, after he spent all those years not really addressing that."

Jean-Luc sighed. "And here I've been wondering if I wouldn't lose my ship's counselor. The first thing I thought when I saw you so sadly looking out at the stars -- "

"You thought I was pining for Will? You really do owe me an apology, now!"

"We -- Beverly and I, that is -- always thought the two of you would make it work some day."

"I told you preconceptions were dangerous. I knew it was over years ago. While I can't say I haven't occasionally thought about reconsidering, it's never been what I wanted, at the end of each deliberation. And Will has done his own vacillating on that idea often enough. He would hint, or talk, and then it would go right back to the way it was." There was something about the vagueness and her tone that suggested there might be more to that. But he didn't want to know, really.

"It says something that officer's relationships can become so convoluted and confusing, I suppose."

"It means we're in Starfleet. Something that's made me completely incurious about why you lost your hair."

For some reason, as she made the comment, she touched the back of his head. Transfixed by the brush of her fingertips down his neck, he cupped his hands over his knees, tightening his fingers.

She snatched her hand back. "I guess I'm my mother's daughter, after all. I shouldn't have invaded your personal space like that."

Their eyes met. It sank in, finally, that this was Deanna, and they were really talking this way. She was right in her earlier assessment -- with her he had always been professional, even when she hadn't been. He realized he'd raised his hand to his cheek only when he touched it. She'd kissed him on the cheek before, affectionately, chastely, and he'd been able to accept that from her. He'd been packing to leave the ship following his recovery from the Borg, and at the time, he'd been talking to her in counseling and expressing doubts about remaining in Starfleet. And now he found himself wondering if that had been --

No. He was being too anxious, and that was insane -- she had been his good friend, and his counselor, for years. He would not let himself begin to second guess the past. This was new, and it was not a direction he'd expected to take with her.

"What are you thinking?" she whispered, waking him from the brief reverie. He couldn't tell what she thought, or felt, from her expression; she was leaning her cheek on her knee thoughtfully, watching him.

"How fortunate I am."

She rolled her eyes. "Because?"

"I chose you for ship's counselor out of a handful of options, almost blindly."

She leaned back on the porch on her elbows. "That liar! Will said it was his influence that got me this posting. Though I suppose the fact that he was laughing when he said it should have told me otherwise."

"No, it was your recommendations from various professors, previous commanding officers, and your heritage. It was pointed out to me that an empath would make an excellent counselor -- though I've come to believe since that you're equally as effective with or without that talent."

"So who told you an empath makes a good counselor?"

Jean-Luc smiled. "Guinan, of course."

"Of course." She had dimples, he realized, though it took a really genuine grin to bring them out. "Are you showing me the house, too?"

They got up and went inside, his boots loud on the panel flooring. He let her choose their path, watching her study things with honest curiosity. "You've been to Earth, haven't you?"

"Yes, but this is an older house than I've been in before -- the furniture is all different."

"Hand-made, by my father's account. And he would insist on something like that."

She wandered into the living room and studied the china cabinet full of collectibles. Jean-Luc experienced a jolt of alarm when she opened it, but steadied himself immediately -- he'd forgotten for a moment that this was a holodeck. She shot him an amused glance and took down a tinted-glass water lily. He went to stand next to her and surveyed the cabinet's contents.

"Maman had all kinds of pretty things in there, and often rotated them out with the ones she kept in storage. Many were heirlooms, but she always insisted they were meant for looking at."

"That's what my mother would say. Her house resembles a poorly-organized museum. What kind of flower is this?"

"It's a water lily. They float on the water, that's what the green part is for, and the flower sits on top of the pad." It was also Beverly's favorite item -- he'd brought her into this holodeck program, and it was an odd bit of _deja vu_ that Deanna had picked the flower up first.

That wasn't the only thing she'd picked up, he realized, as she turned her dark eyes to his. "What is it?"

"I told you, it's a -- "

"Not the lily. Don't play that game, Jean-Luc."

"It's also the first thing Beverly picked up when I brought her here a few months ago, before. . . ." He took the glass lily from her. "It was her favorite of these things."

Deanna contemplated the lily laying in his palm. "Throw it."

"Throw it?"

"Go ahead. The real lily is in France, after all. Throw it."

He couldn't bring himself to do it. He put it on the bottom shelf of the cabinet instead, as if it had bit him. Deanna shook her head and studied the other objects. "I see the elephant has followed us from the lift."

To that he could give no answer. He crossed his arms, realized that was a defensive posture, and uncrossed them.

"I like swans." She reached up to touch the glass swan on the top shelf, traced the upswept wings with a finger. "I've only seen real swans once, while in San Francisco -- there was a small group of them in one of the ponds on Command grounds."

"They're very graceful animals."

"And very strong, and protective of their families."

"Geese can be that way without families. Some of our neighbors kept geese -- they make better watchdogs than dogs. I've had a real goosing once or twice, trying to sneak home the back way through the neighbor's orchards."

"You know, I'd like to see something -- what was your favorite place to play, as a boy?"

He contemplated, remembering, and nodded once. "Come with me."

She put down the swan and followed him outside, then around the house into the trees. Not far into the woods he found the tree -- a gigantic old oak, with a treehouse in the lower branches. He pointed up at the grouping of boards nailed together loosely.

"Was that the bridge of your starship?"

"Among other things."

She walked around the tree, studying it from all angles, then to his surprise she gathered her skirt and climbed, putting her foot in that well-worn knot he and Robert had always used as the first step up.

"Are you sure -- " He interrupted himself as she reached the treehouse and sat cross-legged on the platform, peering over the edge, grinning puckishly.

"You think you were the only one who ever had a treehouse?"

He laughed and scaled the trunk in her footsteps, and sat down next to her on the branch. "It's a lot smaller than I remember."

"Most things are, when you grow up. What did you and Robert do here?"

"Mmm. . . . He pushed me out, once, and I pushed him out, and then he started bringing girls up here and I hid in that tree over there with a telescope." He pointed at another oak.

"You, a voyeur?"

"I sold tickets."

She laughed. "The Ferengi would approve, I'm sure. What happened when you wanted a place to bring the girls?"

"By that time we'd built another tree house. Don't think we did nothing but play, though -- Papa kept us busy either around the vineyards or with schoolwork. Things like treehouses weren't everyday activities." He paused, looking at her, realizing the incongruity of having her there in the treehouse -- Beverly hadn't expressed interest in his boyhood pursuits. And Deanna looked completely unlike the polished counselor he saw every day -- hair down, skirt bunched in her lap, her bare calves crossed and her elbows on her knees as she looked down and around her. She was barefoot, he realized -- had she been barefoot all along? Her feet were covered with the holographic dust from the vineyard.

His attention came to her attention. She arranged her skirt over her legs automatically and leaned back, propping her hands on the boards behind her. And looked at him.

"You're being the captain again."

"What?"

She sighed. "You're on alert, every few minutes, like clockwork. You're not being yourself. I know you are capable of relaxing."

"But myself is the captain."

To his dismay she rearranged herself onto her knees facing him, too close for comfort. She gazed into his eyes across mere inches, making him feel naked. "You opened the door, Jean-Luc. I followed you in. We're both missing good friends, and I appreciate that you are making the effort -- but if you're going to allow simple physical attraction to get in the way of our friendship, just because you know I know it's there, it won't work. There has to be more than a physical attraction, and neither of us has the energy or the time to waste -- or the inclination to jeopardize careers with a fling. Now -- are you going to let a little mutual attraction throw me out the door and close it, or are we going to ignore it and be friends?"

He removed her hand and placed it on her knee firmly. "Do you have this talk with all your friends?"

She moved away, sitting back and re-crossing her legs, and smiled. "Just the ones who are struggling with it. Never in a love nest, though."

"As long as we're on the subject, could we declare a temporary moratorium on flirting and innuendo, just until we've reached some level of comfort? I've seen the way you flirt shamelessly with your other male friends."

"I think I can manage that, if you can. I have to be good at ignoring things, remember. How else could I work with my patients as an officer?"

"I hadn't thought of that. Which reminds me, I need someone to cover the first half of alpha shift tomorrow -- Data and I are supposed to be in engineering going over the last check of our refit."

"I suppose I can babysit a few ensigns, but I'll have to reschedule two appointments."

"A real friend wouldn't complain." If she could tease, so could he.

"If you're going to redefine things as we go along. . . ."

"I have to," he said, daring to look her in the eye again. "Somehow I doubt any previous definitions are going to work with you."

"Preconceptions," she murmured, looking away at the leaf canopy.

He glanced over the edge at the ground, sighing. "I never thought I would come this far, you know."

"This far?"

"When I built this treehouse -- the real one -- my universe was very small. Only slightly smaller than it was when I graduated from the Academy. I have been, in my way, as small-minded as my father."

"I don't understand."

The discomfort at this, the embarrassing nervousness that wet his palms -- he hated his lack of self-control. "I have defined my world with such preciseness that I've become a prisoner in it."

"But you've always wanted to be an explorer."

"Of space," he said, looking at her again. "Of anything but myself."

"That hasn't been my impression." She wasn't smiling, and in the shaded treehouse her eyes looked like inkwells. "You've been one of the more introspective of my clients."

"How often do you have people in your office trying to redefine themselves? Their goals?"

"Not often. Every once in a while, someone will embark upon a romance that comes to a parting of ways or compromise of career objective. Now and then someone questions their life in Starfleet, whether they're really suited to it. Like Reg Barclay." She smiled a little at that. "Though not with such nervousness that they stammer. Most officers have a sense of direction that's much more well-defined than your general Federation citizen."

"Why did you join Starfleet?"

The smile fell. "It seemed the natural thing to do. I didn't fit in at home, for one thing. And I wanted to be a counselor -- I'm deficient when it comes to counseling Betazoids."

"What? How could you be?"

She had, for the first time in his memory, a bitter smile. "In a world of blind people, a man with one eye is king. In a world of ordinary men, a one-eyed man is half-blind."

He stared, unable to articulate his response to that, and her eyes flicked up to meet his. She looked away quickly.

"Deanna -- "

"I don't need sympathy," she murmured. "But thank you."

"I wasn't going to give sympathy. I was trying to say that you've always intimidated the hell out of me."

"You hid it well," she said, managing to imply the opposite.

He laughed, swearing at himself. "I'm sorry, it's old habit -- it's just been too easy to believe you couldn't always tell, which of course you could, and. . . . You intimidate me now. It's probably as you said when we got here, a control issue -- I can't control myself to a degree that I can hide from you, or lie convincingly. Or save face."

"You don't have to, Jean-Luc. I'm the -- I'm a friend. One of the best things about a friend is that you don't have to hide from them."

He had to turn away. The unexpected hurt that observation caused arrested his voice. It reminded him too much of Beverly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Sometimes," he managed, forcing air through his throat, "you have to hide things. Sometimes it's the only way to remain a friend."

"Let me qualify then. The best kind of friend is one you can feel safe discussing uncomfortable topics with, so long as that won't threaten the friendship."

"You've always been my counselor. That's how I've labeled you -- that's how restrictive I've been. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to work on my labeling system."

"A good counselor allows the patient to choose his own path to healing. A good friend lets you be whoever you are, whenever you are, and has your best interests at heart. I've done my best to be both."

Before he thought about it, he plucked her hand from her knee and gripped it firmly. "You have always been both. I've been the deficient one, never quite able to voice how much I appreciate your help."

She stared at their hands, hers almost disappearing into his, her expression unreadable. He let go -- opened his fingers and cradled her hand. Biting her upper lip, she lingered, uncertain, palm to his, then withdrew and averted her gaze.

"If by help you mean our counseling sessions, I was only doing my duty."

"You always did more than counsel. I've had counselors before who didn't go to such lengths. And none ever sought me out to lend an ear -- if I didn't go to them, I didn't have counseling."

"If your previous counselors didn't do their job, that's no reflection on me," she said haughtily.

"It isn't the counselor's job to hunt down her patients."

"You're the captain." She rearranged her skirt in her lap. "It's the counselor's. . . look who I'm telling about duty. You have a better idea of duty than anyone else aboard."

"Is that observation based in any sort of fact, or an attempt at flattery? I can think of a number of people who have a fine sense of duty."

She shifted uncomfortably. "My legs are starting to cramp."

"Let's get out of this." Truth be told, his own knees were starting to complain -- had she sensed that? She could sense pain.

He climbed down carefully and offered a hand to help her. She almost fell jumping down to the grass. Automatically his hands went out to steady her, and as she caught her balance and pulled away, his thumb caught briefly in a fold of the dress and the neckline gapped.

"So what else did you program in these woods?" she asked breezily, turning with a smile. She had to have sensed his reaction, but her puzzled frown as her eyes found his was pretty convincing. "Something wrong?"

"You're. . . dress, isn't your usual style. Not that it's without appeal."

Deanna glanced down at herself. "I suppose it is somewhat see-through, isn't it? I'm sorry, I'm afraid I hadn't intended to leave my quarters. Going to the lounge was just a whim and it didn't occur to me that I'd end up talking to the captain. I should have worn something less revealing."

"Perhaps we should call it a night," he husked. "We do have a mission to prepare for, and you'll be indispensable -- it would be irresponsible of me to keep you awake all night."

"All right. Thank you for showing me around your home. Perhaps you'll show me more of it some other time?"

"Yes." He called for the end of the program and walked, hands behind his back, from the holodeck toward the nearest lift. She mimicked his posture and seemed not a bit uncomfortable. Her quarters were on deck eight, not far from his. He came to a halt almost at attention outside her door.

"Good night, Captain," she said pleasantly, her eyes aglow with the smile she wore.

"Good night, Counselor," he replied automatically. And paused, mouth open, but nothing else would come out. He couldn't make his feet move. It finally truly registered that this was really happening, and it might be impossible to walk it back -- it could go very, very wrong. He had been unsuccessful with Lieutenant-Commander Darren. But she hadn't been at all like Deanna.... And at that thought, his feelings on the matter were all that much clearer to him. He really did not want to see her leave, and did not want to fail.

Deanna seemed unable to make eye contact. Chin tucked, she moved at last toward her door, which opened.

"You aren't planning to leave the ship," he blurted, half-questioning.

"No, sir." She hesitated on the threshold, looking back at him out of the corner of her eye.

"No?"

"I thought about it," she admitted slowly. "But. . . this is my home. I enjoy my work here. I would have found it very difficult to leave."

"Good. It would be impossible to replace you."

An odd look flitted across her face before she turned away. "Thank you, sir."

He stood a moment longer after the doors closed. Finally, he recognized that he'd been waiting for her to invite him in. He marched for his quarters, alarmed almost as much by that as he had been by the realization that she wore no underwear under the thin, loose dress. Even more alarming, she had to know exactly how he'd reacted. But as he walked away, reeling from the thought of everything she must have sensed, it came to him -- she had not put an end to the conversation. She had decided not to leave after all. 

He reached his quarters, went inside, stood there with his palms to his forehead and his eyes closed. He forced a deep breath, then another. 

This was Deanna. She would be the last person who would ever lead him on.

"Computer, tea. Earl Grey, hot."

 

* * *

 

 

He made it to the bridge late the following morning, to find her impatiently waiting in his chair. She hesitated a moment, giving him a look that plainly said 'it's about time!' before she relinquished it.

"Counselor, I'd like to speak to you a moment in my ready room?" He nodded to Data, who'd followed him onto the bridge, and the android took Deanna's place as Jean-Luc led her to the door.

She sat facing him across the desk as she had hundreds of times before, cool and professional, leaving him to wonder why he'd expected that to change -- which he had, somehow, after the previous evening. He offered her tea, and she accepted readily. When she sat with cup in hand, sipping, she finally looked at him as if to question why she was there.

"I need your opinion on something," he said, placing his cup on the desk with greater care than necessary. "Last night, you suggested that I needed to take some leave. Was that a professional observation?"

"If I felt you needed it, from a professional standpoint, I would have said so. But as a friend I do think it would help." She closed her mouth short of finishing what she had been about to say, he was sure of it.

"Help?"

"You miss Beverly's companionship. A break from your normal surroundings will help. If the Zibyans are amenable, I'd like to set up a leave schedule upon the conclusion of our official visit -- you aren't the only one who needs some time off. From what I've been reading in the reports, the people are extremely friendly and peaceful. As one would expect empaths to be."

"You mentioned that they're only marginally empathic. As compared to what?"

"There's no standard scale to measure such things by, but I gather they're less capable than I. My mother did the initial negotiating. She says they're frustratingly mind-blind to telepathy for some reason, but that they have a remarkable serenity about them."

"Your mother is a skilled diplomat."

"She would be eternally overjoyed to hear that from you." Deanna's eyes laughing at the possibility didn't annoy him quite as much as it once did. "It's taken a long time for you to come to that conclusion."

"I didn't say I understood how she did it, just that she does -- unorthodoxy isn't one of those things I do well, in some cases. Diplomacy especially."

Deanna took another sip and put the cup on the edge of his desk. "I have an appointment in ten minutes, and I've left almost no time to prepare. Is there anything else?"

"Just. . . a request?"

"Captain?"

"No -- Deanna, would you like to go horseback riding with me after shift?"

It surprised her; what she'd expected he had no idea, but she probably knew he'd been nervous about asking -- it probably showed in his face even if she couldn't sense it. Part of him still disbelieved their experience the previous evening.

"Horseback riding," she echoed, as if not quite believing such a thing existed.

"I haven't been, in a long time. I thought you might like to join me. If you would rather do something else. . . ."

She stared a few moments and finally responded. "Actually, I think I'd like that. Holodeck two, at seventeen hundred?"

"I'll see you there, then."

Finally, a smile, though not the warmest one she'd ever given him. "Captain." She turned and strode out purposefully.

He watched her leave, trying to not second guess himself -- she had accepted, even if she had been surprised she still wanted to spend the time with him. He picked up a padd and forced himself to work, trying not to imagine how it would be to spend the time with her. That would only tie him up in anxious knots. He put his attention on the mission -- of course, their next assignment would involve her more than usual, and so he was thinking about her just the same. But he found that it was easier to put her in that context and not feel anxious.

It would be interesting to see how she would react to the Zibyans. Their visit would be a followup to the first, a continuation of diplomatic relations, but there had also been a vaguely-worded request for more information on the Zibyans' culture and the nature of their empathic talent. Deanna's presence had been a major factor in the assignment of the _Enterprise_  to this mission. It was almost as though the first delegation hadn't done their job correctly, but the reports seemed detailed enough. There was simply a confusion about the Zibyans that no one seemed to know how to describe.

When he completed the review of the preliminary reports he went to his dining room for lunch, then returned to the bridge and spent the afternoon reviewing departmental status reports and chatting with Mr. Data, who had accepted a promotion to first officer upon Will's departure. At the end of alpha shift, he returned to his quarters and picked up a couple of personal messages he'd rerouted from the bridge earlier in the day. He listened to a brief gossipy message from Marie while changing into his riding clothes. His former sister-in-law remained his only solid tie to Labarre, and had apparently taken it upon herself to keep him connected to home. From the way she phrased things at times, she knew how much his brother's and nephew's deaths had affected him. If it did her some good to hear from him, far be it from him to deny her that. He'd kept up the correspondence with more faithfulness than he had other long-distance exchanges. He even enjoyed hearing the anecdotes she told of life in the village and her new job.

As the computer announced the origin of the next message, he slowly lowered his foot to the floor after a final tug of his left boot and stood in shock.

"Jean-Luc." Beverly's voice held none of the anger he remembered. "How are you? Probably doing just fine, I'm sure, buried in work as usual and paying no attention to your own welfare while obsessing about the next mission. I hope you conscript someone to drag you to dinner once in the while, or at least to badger you into the holodeck. It's been interesting here on the _Valiant_  -- very different from the _Enterprise_ , of course, like night and day -- Captain Barregan has his own way of doing things. It never ceases to amaze me how one school can turn out so many unique commanding officers. Anyhow, things are status quo in sickbay, now. My new staff had some trauma lingering from the death of the previous CMO, but the counselor here, Hannah Torvold -- Deanna probably knows her, I guess she was on Betazed for classes and she thinks she remembers Deanna -- has been wonderful with helping them through the transition."

A pause, and some muffled sounds that made Jean-Luc wonder if she were crying. Her voice didn't sound that way, however. "Anyway, I wanted to let you know there's no hard feelings, and I'm sorry I got so angry at you. I guess it was unfair of me to expect you to pick up right where I left you off. I think, now that I've cooled off a lot, that I was more angry at myself for -- sorry. For missing out on the opportunity when I had it. I'm going to move on, now. I can do that. But I'd like us to remain friends, Jean-Luc. I miss our friendship, a lot." Another muffled noise. She had to be wiping her nose. "I want you to wait a while to answer this, though -- I'm really tired of -- you know, and I think hearing your voice. . . . Take care of yourself, all right? I'll. . . I'll be all right. I am all right. In time. Bye."

Jean-Luc sighed and chewed the inside of his cheek. The chiming of the annunciator interrupted his brown study. "Come," he called.

He heard the door open and close. "Hello?"

"Deanna -- I'll be right out." He had allowed the messages to distract him and make him late. He snatched up the other boot and jammed his foot into it, and hurried out of the bedroom.

She had chosen riding clothes similar to his, the tight riding pants and boots, the long-sleeved button-down shirt, and somehow she'd jammed all those long dark curls into a single bun on the back of her head, out of her way. She didn't seem very happy.

"You got a message from her, too," she said.

"Yes. An apology."

"That's what I assumed from what she told me." Deanna peered into his eyes. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"What is there to discuss? I'm not the one who -- bloody hell. Why is this difficult?" He shook his head, not liking that it was difficult to put his reaction to Beverly's message aside.

"Because you spent many years loving a woman you couldn't have, and when she decides she wants you, it's too late -- so you feel guilty about it. A very understandable reaction for someone who still cares, but can't bring himself to actually love her again."

He couldn't bring himself to look at her; dropping into one of the padded easy chairs, he glared at a book he'd left on the table.

Deanna let him stew a few more minutes, then perched on the arm of the chair and put a hand on his shoulder. "Jean-Luc, would you like me to leave?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't expect this." He glanced sidelong at her. "What did she tell you? To drag me out of my quarters once in a while and throw me in the holodeck?"

"As a matter of fact, she did. Among other things."

"Other things?"

"She wants me to remember to water and fertilize the plants she left in my care, for one thing. Unfortunately, most of them are dead already. I think they're committing suicide to escape my abysmal horticultural skills."

For some reason, he found that inescapably funny, and what began as a chuckle became all-out laughter. "You could always -- send her their suicide notes as a way of -- of explanation. . . ."

She laughed with him, more out of courtesy than amusement, he guessed, but he hit the end of the last guffaw and gulped back, surprisingly, a sob.

"Is it okay?" he whispered. "Is it -- normal, to grieve, even when you knew it had to end, to be that way -- "

"Very normal."

At the waver in her voice, he looked up at her. "Are those sympathetic tears, or yours?"

"Both."

She stood up when he did, wiping her face, grimacing at the makeup smears on her fingers.

"Something was bothering you when you came in. Is there anything I can do to help?"

He almost regretted the offer. Deanna made a strangled noise that mutated into a sob, then pounded a fist ineffectually against his shoulder. "Help? My best friend is light years away in pain, and you're here and in pain, and the whole thing reminds me of things I've been trying to put behind me -- what do you think would help?"

"You've never been riding before, have you?"

She looked startled, slightly off kilter, at that, then turned toward the door.

It was easy to return to a professional demeanor once in the corridor. Both of them had trained themselves to allow surroundings to dictate their behavior. It struck him that she, the counselor, hadn't pressed him to talk about what was bothering him -- she had only asked and allowed him to opt out. This was a new thing.

"I am sorry, Deanna," he said softly as they stepped in a lift. "I shouldn't have fallen back on flirtatious behavior yesterday."

"You're likely following that ancient human tradition, called 'being on the rebound.' Even if you thought it was over a long time ago, there's still a finality about that last door closing behind you."

"Lift's getting crowded again."

"It's your elephant."

"Is it?"

Holodeck one opened as they passed the door, and a group of laughing crew spilled out, snapping to attention automatically when they saw the captain. He smiled, noting that all of them were newer ensigns and lieutenants and half had bathing suits on, the rest barely more than that.

"At ease," he said over his shoulder, passing them by and stopping to program holodeck two before entering. He and Deanna walked into a barn upon entering, and the doors sighed shut to complete the illusion.

"They're curious," she said matter-of-factly. "You know, if we spend a lot of time together, there will be as many rumors about me as there were about Beverly."

"There were rumors?" He hesitated with his hand on the stall door, ignoring the nuzzling of the bay inside.

"You had to know there would be. The senior officers of the _Enterprise_  were always close, but whenever a man and a woman have a closer-than-usual friendship there is always conjecture."

"I suppose that's why you and I have never spent much time together, outside work and the occasional poker game." That and Beverly, he thought grimly.

"I suppose." She leaned against a beam, studying him, then looked down the row of stalls.

"The one on the end behind you would be your best choice. She's a quiet one."

Deanna opened the stall, he opened his, and they led the two horses out of the barn. Jean-Luc tied the bay gelding to a post and patted his neck, then gestured at the door to the tack room on the corner of the barn.

"You could have programmed pre-saddled horses," Deanna said, following him into the authentically-dusty room. He picked up a saddle and handed it to her.

"This is part of the experience." He added a bridle from a peg to her burden. "I believe I've invited you to go riding before and you refused. If you'd rather not -- "

"I don't normally care much for large animals, but these are holodeck simulations. I can manage. I've wondered why you find it so enjoyable -- I guess there's no time like the present to find out."

He showed her how to saddle her horse, how to get the bit in the piebald mare's mouth and adjust all the straps. He was explaining the bit and reins and how to guide the horse when a communicator chirp interrupted. "Data to Captain Picard."

"Picard here."

"Incoming message from Zibyan, sir."

"Is it an emergency?"

"It is a welcome message, I believe. They do not appear to want a reply."

"We have the same ETA, Mr. Data?"

"Affirmative, sir."

"I'll listen to the message later, thank you, Data. And what the hell are you doing on the bridge at this hour?"

"Mr. Carlisle asked me to stand his watch for him."

"Of course. I'd forgotten for a moment -- never mind. Good evening, Mr. Data."

"Good evening, sir. Enjoy your ride."

Jean-Luc whirled to look at Deanna, incredulous. She yanked the cinch a little tighter and played with the stirrup. "Data was there at lunch in the lounge when Lana'hai asked me if I wanted to join him on the holodeck for the evening."

"Lana'hai? That's. . . surprising."

"I told Lana'hai I already had plans, and Data was curious -- he observed that I haven't 'had plans' for a long time, and that he was glad that I'd 'made plans.' I think he's running innuendo subroutines. I informed him that I was taking horseback riding lessons from the captain, and it stopped the grinning."

He turned to his own mount, leaving her holding hers, and quickly saddled it with a practiced hand, saying, "But Lana'hai? I thought he might prefer someone with more. . . tentacles."

"There's no accounting for taste, I guess."

He slipped the bits into the gelding's mouth, straightened the four reins, and turned to find that she already sat in the saddle, reins in hands, even sitting more or less properly.

"I thought you hadn't ridden before."

She shot him a devilish grin. "I didn't say I hadn't, just that I didn't care for large animals. Daddy told me westerns for bedtime stories -- one of the first things I programmed in the holodeck was a western, and horses are part of that."

"Then why did you let me stand there lecturing you?"

"Western style uses neck reining. You ride English. Besides, it made you forget and be yourself for a while."

Before he could respond, she clapped her heels to the mare's sides and rode off at a canter, kicking the mare again as she left the yard gate. The horse raced down the slope, Deanna whooped and spurred the horse into jumping the brook.

" _Merde_ ," he muttered, leaping into the saddle. "Riding lessons, indeed."

He had the advantage of knowing the terrain. When he saw the direction she took, he managed to head her off at the crossroads in the woods by riding through the trees over the hill. He had some brush to navigate around, but he made it around just as she came around the bend.

She pulled her mare to a jigging halt. "Hello, again."

The snorting gelding didn't want to walk. One of his better programs, close to authentic. He turned down the west path, reins tight in his fists, and she walked her horse alongside. Her hair had come loose and cascaded around her shoulders.

"What you said last night, about friends," he said over the hoofbeats and squeak of tack. "What you said about discussing the uncomfortable. I wish I had done that."

"Last night?"

"As a general policy. Personal confrontations make me ill at ease, and there were too many times when I ran instead of making them."

She smiled, glancing at the trees on her right and leaning forward slightly as if holding the mare in were a greater strain than it should have been. "People often find it difficult to deal with personal confrontations. Especially those who grew up with poor role models, and consequently don't know how to handle strong emotion constructively."

"That would be me."

"Among others. What little I remember of my own father tells me he would have been a good role model. I needed one."

Jean-Luc watched her ride with bowed head for a moment. "You have done very well, I think. Your mother can't have done so badly on her own."

"I suppose." Deanna's cynical twist of the lip didn't prepare him. "There's something I've noticed about people. Regardless of their upbringing, they always feel they had a difficult time, and that things could have been better. I have to wonder, if given the choice, who would trade their childhood for something else?"

"Don't say that too loudly. Q might be listening."

"Oh, yes, the eternal manipulator. Though he does seem to like you quite a bit."

"'Like' would hardly be how I would describe it." He waited until they had forded a stream, the horses' hooves splashing through the slow-moving water. "I suppose a different childhood would have created a different person. Which would lead me to conclude that I should accept it for what it was and be happy, since for the most part I've been satisfied with the rest of my life."

"For the most part."

She obviously knew the latest 'part' that had been less than satisfactory. "Barring things like losing XO's and CMO's I've befriended. Barring things like being too unwilling to voice what should have been said, and letting things come to an impasse too often."

"We all have decisions we wish had been made differently," she said distantly.

He watched the gelding's ears bob in front of him. "You know what I appreciate the most about you so far as a friend, Deanna?"

"I could hazard a few guesses, but you made me swear off innuendo and flirting, and my guessing could probably be misconstrued as both."

Pulling his horse to a stop, he chuckled dryly. "You aren't afraid to be forthright about things. Even if it's only reminding me that you read me that easily."

"I was about to apologize for that comment."

He looked at her, and discovered she'd gone a little red-faced. "Why?"

"Because I don't yet know what's too intrusive -- everyone has different boundaries. There are. . . were very few people around whom I could relax completely."

The swish of the gelding's tail and a restless stamp of the hoof delayed a response to that, something he considered fortunate. He patted the horse's shoulder, then stared at the gleaming mahogany hide that looked so real. "You can't suspend disbelief on the holodeck the way we can. Can you?"

"Not really, no." She stroked her horse's neck. "I generally don't use the holodeck unless someone's with me."

"You can't turn it off -- block people out completely?"

She looked at the mare's mane and untangled a knot she found there. "I can't close myself off completely. Emotions are always around me, like the air we breathe. I can sense them there all the time. Sometimes, when tension is running high on the ship, I start to get headaches. It can be difficult, when my own emotions are similar to those I can sense -- it can have a cumulative effect on my mood."

"You could use an inhibitor."

"No," she said flatly. Then her shoulders sagged. "Don't feel sorry for me. If I did as you suggest, it would cause problems -- better to accept it and find less drastic methods of coping with it. Other empaths manage, I'll manage. I even made it through the war," she added, though her voice was uneven.

It made him remember the tension everyone felt during the war, and how she'd taken the news when Betazed had been taken by the Breen. He remembered Will commenting, in official conversations about crew morale, that Deanna had difficulty sleeping sometimes due to the higher levels of tension among the crew. Like every other time someone had mentioned her empathy, he hadn't thought beyond its existence to the ramifications of being able to sense the emotions of all around her. Until last night, and now that she spoke of it in more detail, he saw that he'd underestimated.

"It's not really fair."

She kicked her horse, he loosened the bay's reins to let it follow alongside, and they rode forward down a slope into a meadow. "It's the way it is."

"No, I mean it isn't fair that you feel that you must keep it to yourself so much. I've worked with you for years, and suddenly now you're letting me see how much of a handicap it can be. It makes me wonder if the things I've asked of you in the name of duty have been somehow. . . unethical. Unsympathetic, at the least."

"I have to keep it to myself." She brought her horse's head up when it tried to graze. "It's the only way to maintain friendships, at times. And if I weren't willing to make use of it in the line of duty I would have said something -- you wouldn't have forced me to do anything."

She occupied herself too much with watching where her mare was stepping as they started down another slope, her hair falling forward across her face as she leaned. As they reached the bottom of the slope, she let the mare canter up the other side. He followed single-file to the top of a ridge and drew up alongside when she halted and looked out over a valley with a lake in it.

"This is beautiful countryside," she commented, raising her head to let the breeze brush her hair out of her face. She looked at him over her left shoulder, the wind pushing her hair aside to expose her right ear as she did so. He wasn't used to her eyes measuring him with quite so much calculation. When his discomfort intensified to a point at which he was about to turn away, she smiled slightly and looked again at the lake.

"You can tell how I feel, not just when you want to -- you know, all the time." He wondered if she'd heard him; she didn't react. The gelding fought the bit and sidled against the mare, forcing both of them to steady their mounts.

"Is this someplace you know on Earth, or something out of the database?" she asked, looking at him again with less calculation.

"The database. How am I supposed to talk to you when you constantly change the subject?"

"You're supposed to enjoy riding, I thought. Not pursue topics that make you uncomfortable." She held his eyes, and like last night, she seemed to be trying to tell him something with just a look. "You're certainly not very relaxed at the moment."

He stared until his horse tossed its head and forced him to tighten his grip on the reins. "Haven't you ever felt like lashing out at people? How the hell do you stay sane?"

Her eyes laughed at that. "How do you know I _am_  sane?"

"How, indeed. If you're not, the rest of us are in a lot of trouble." He paused, enjoying the way she looked, how her eyes seemed to invite him to join her in smiling, and as he did so he realized she could read him too well. And though she certainly had read this from him before, he couldn't help the trepidation, either.

"It's catching up with you at last," she said, giving the mare slack rein to graze for a moment. "You're thinking again, like you were the last few times we've talked, that I can tell the instant you feel an attraction to me -- you feel uneasy. Then you feel more uneasy because you know I can tell, and probably wonder what I'm going to make of your uneasiness. Thus you continue feeling uneasy and self-conscious, and not knowing whether I'll respond to it heightens the tension. And you're afraid because of all this, though you label it otherwise. It steals some of your control from you. The ability to hide behind a straight face isn't there any more. I can only reassure you that I don't react to everything -- I can't afford to. I value our friendship a great deal and I would never do anything to intentionally cause you discomfort."

She pulled the reins and kicked the mare. The gelding galloped after the other horse, and he let it go, recovering from his stunned reaction. She'd known he needed the distance to recover, no doubt. Something else to stun him -- she knew how this would strike him. Telling him was a risk. She took it, knowing full well that it might ruin a friendship. Her eyes as she'd turned away from him said as much -- she was afraid.

They rode for a while through rolling countryside, trotting and cantering the horses. When he brought them back to the barn by another route, she dismounted and began pulling her hair back into confinement.

"It wouldn't have worked with Nella," he said, startling her -- she dropped her hands and stared at him, her curls falling around her shoulders again.

"What brought that on?"

He swung down out of the saddle and dropped the reins over the rail. "Just what we were discussing earlier -- impasses and confrontations. It was an impasse."

"Has anyone ever told you that you think too much?" She wrestled with her hair again as she turned away.

"You've told me to think about things a lot."

"That was in the context of counseling, and also, there comes a point where you're just overthinking. The term is 'rumination' when it becomes disruptive in your daily life."

"I know, sorry, I'll shut up now." He gestured with the riding crop dismissively. "It's not as though that's something I might talk about with a friend."

She peered under her upraised arm at him, wide-eyed, and finished balling her hair on the back of her head. Crossing her arms, she came to him, one eyebrow raised. "Is it something you feel you need to talk about? Nella was a long time ago."

"Not so long as all that."

"Besides, I would think the lasting trauma would have been inflicted by Vash," she continued. "It can't have been easy seeing Q disappear with such an attractive and _fun_  -- "

"You know, I really don't feel the need to talk. At all."

She pursed her lips, eyes gleaming -- laughing with him, as he felt a helpless sort of amusement at his own desperate dodging of a topic that had been entirely his fault. "You asked for it. I'm not on duty, remember. I don't have to be the counselor if I don't want to."

"I'm beginning to see that. But you've never been so far from the counselor when interacting with. . . ." Clouds scudded through her eyes, for some reason. He stared into them, trying to see how that might have upset her, and finally tossed the crop aside. "Computer, run program Picard ten twenty-five."

She glanced around as the scenery changed. They stood on a sidewalk outside a small bistro. He gestured at the door. "Buy you a drink?"

"Certainly. This is Earth?"

"One of the suburbs of Paris. I'm lazy, this was a pre-existing program I've modified to include one good bistro. Café latte, or -- no, you would want the mocha."

They sat at one of the tiny tables for two on the sidewalk, under a large green umbrella shading them from the afternoon sun. The obsequious waiter appeared, smiling and wielding an order pad. "M'sieur would like the usual, oui? And what would madame like?"

"Mademoiselle would like café mocha, and the usual would be fine, thank you."

"Très bon, m'sieur." He dropped the pad and pencil in the front of his apron and bowed to Deanna, then hurried inside.

"Let me guess, his name's Pierre?"

"No."

She made a face when he wasn't more forthcoming than that -- why she'd be this wrapped up in something that trivial. . . though he hadn't seen her this far off duty before. She might be one of those for whom the trivial was an escape.

"Aren't all French waiters named Pierre? Although that may be just the New Orleans program Data has, I suppose. I don't think he realized he'd done it, but every French or Cajun restaurant you came across had a waiter named Pierre, complete with the accent." She was teasing him, in her usual gentle way.

"Well, in France, there are also waiters named Claude, Jean-Paul, Etienne, and a variety of other common French names -- I imagine there's one named Jean-Luc somewhere as well."

"But he wouldn't be a Picard. Oh. . . . I'm sorry, that was very thoughtless of me."

She knew his sensitive subjects. He sighed heavily, managing to smile in spite of the reminder. "I've lived long enough that absolutely nothing is safe small talk. I'm tougher than that, Deanna. Don't look so distressed about it."

"But it was thoughtless. I knew better."

"I suppose I could make you walk the plank, but that would mean leaving before our order comes."

She was alight with amusement for all of a few seconds thinking about the sailing ship the senior officers had enjoyed on the holodeck, before it reminded her of less happy memories of Worf, possibly Will, and her face fell again. Their drinks came, and she probably didn't even taste hers as she sipped it. She seemed more interested in the flagstones underfoot.

"My turn to apologize?"

"No," she murmured. "I miss the way it was. But. . . things do change, and sometimes in ways you never expect. Sometimes it can be hard to endure the in-between stages, however. To get from one goal to the next."

"This hasn't been a good year for me." Jean-Luc sipped coffee and watched a group of women with shopping bags stroll by. Sagging in his chair, he stretched his legs out beneath the table, propping his elbows on the arms of the chair. "But, you knew that."

"Have you thought about leaving the ship?"

Coffee in one hand, a coaster spinning on the table beneath his fingertips, he made an in-depth survey of the plain metal umbrella post rising through the center of the table. "Yes."

Some laughing young men on bicycles wheeled past, calling to one another in French. Jean-Luc felt Deanna's eyes on him; after a while, he looked at her, to find she'd put her cup down and watched him. Open appraisal wasn't her usual.

"They offered you a position at Command? Admiral's bars?" she asked.

"They think I can run the Academy. They want me to teach a bunch of kids."

She turned away. "You could do that very well, I think."

"I'm a captain, not a desk-sitter."

"But you thought about it."

His attention returned to the pole. "I'm marking time. Between goals. Someday, these diplomatic milk runs and standoffs will end and we'll get back to where we belong. It is, as you say, difficult to endure in the meantime. And more difficult knowing that. . . ."

It reminded him of counseling. She could wait forever for him to finish. Sometimes, he never did, and she would accept his right to do that, too. But this wasn't counseling.

"Knowing that one of my oldest, dearest friends left because she was furious with me, and that it took her months to forgive me," he finished at last, frowning.

This time, her hand found his across the table. She had tears on her cheeks. "I know how you feel," she said, sighing. "But I don't think it was your fault. Nor was it my fault, with Will."

"You don't have to think it was, to feel that way."

Her eyes came up, startled, and held his. A brittle smile trembled on her lips. "I know."

"Of course you do. You told me that before we came to the holodeck."

She grinned sheepishly. "Thank you for reminding me."

"That's what friends are for," he replied lightly.

Singing and laughter from down the street got her attention. "What's that?"

"A celebration of some sort. Happens every time I come here, for some reason."

It got her to giggle. "Is it something we could crash?"

"I've never tried to, but let's go see." They left their cups on the table and strolled up the avenue. On the corner stood a juggler, a fire-breather performed nearby, and a harlequin was handing out ice cream to children. Deanna watched with open curiosity; Jean-Luc watched her, wondering if she'd ever gotten to France in her limited travels on Earth. She'd mentioned other locales, but never Paris. She got in line for ice cream and came back to him nibbling a large popsicle. More chocolate, of course.

"What else is there to see?" she asked, glancing up and down the street. As her eyes returned to his face, she lost some of the interest in her eyes.

"Something wrong?"

"No." Pointing, she turned away. "What's that in the distance?"

"Let's go see."

When, as they meandered down the street, he touched her hand again, she sidled away from him. He accepted it and kept his attention on the _Arc de Triomph_. It'd been a while since he'd been called upon to give a tour in Paris.

The remainder of their wanderings stayed innocuous, as she asked questions about France. Sometimes he wondered if she weren't intentionally being naive to draw him out. As he called a halt to the simulation and they left the holodeck, she seemed to withdraw somewhat, keeping her eyes on the floor and her pleasant professional mask in place.

"Thank you," she murmured as they drew even with his door. She slowed, obviously intending to part from him there.

"The pleasure was mine."

She raised her eyebrows, her smile one of forbearance.

"You know it was. You know I'm being sincere." He caught himself wagging a finger at her and put his hands behind his back. "Sorry. But you know that in spite of the discomfort I do enjoy your company. I always have, and even if I'm disgusted with myself for not bothering to really get to know you before now, I'd like to. . . . Would you like to come inside?"

"I'm really very tired, perhaps some other time," she murmured, half-turning. "I appreciate your persistence, Jean-Luc. But I remember how uncomfortable it made you when my mother was aboard, and I do know how private you are -- if upon further introspection you find it too difficult to spend more time with me, I'll understand. Good night."

He watched her walk away from him. Catching himself gaping, he went the few steps through the door, then strode across and collapsed on the couch.

What had she just done? He felt manipulated, somehow, though it defied his attempt to find rational basis for insult. Hammering home the extent of her empathy, then spending all that time with him, then issuing an 'easy out' statement as she left him on his doorstep. And throwing in a comparison to her mother's outrageousness!

After fuming over it for a while, he jumped up and left his quarters. At this time of night no one was in the corridor. He jammed his thumb against the annunciator button outside her quarters, and the door opened a moment later. She blocked the opening, arms crossed, wearing a flowing white robe.

"Yes, Captain?"

"You are **not** your mother!"

She smiled at that, her eyes so merry that it stole the rest of his lecture from him and left him with a finger in the air. "No, I'm not. How nice of you to notice."

"You did that on purpose. You told me -- that, and then you hint that I might find it so distasteful that I'd not want to spend any time with you. As if I had any choice -- you're my officer! I've worked with you for years! Why the hell would I believe you would go out of your way to make me uncomfortable? Are you really that sensitive or did you exaggerate? That's what you did, isn't it? You blew it all out of proportion to see if you could scare me with it!"

"Why would I do that? I'm not my mother."

"Because. . . you know how I've been feeling," he finished lamely, at a whisper. "If it bothers you. . . I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to make you uncomfortable."

She contemplated him soberly. "I didn't tell you that although I can't turn myself off, I can distract myself, or ignore what I sense, or eclipse it with intense emotion of my own. I'm not going to judge anyone based on what I sense from them. I've learned to cope with the emotions of others very well, even when they might make for uncomfortable situations if expressed. You must know you aren't the first man who's ever been attracted to me."

"I know that. But. . . ."

When he couldn't continue, she squeezed his arm. "Good night, Jean-Luc."

"Good night," he said automatically. It seemed to free up his tongue. "Thank you, for explaining it to me so clearly. I'm sorry I reacted poorly. I shouldn't have accused you of trying to frighten me away. I didn't think it through, otherwise I would have seen that you were only trying to. . . warn me, to spare my feelings."

Her expression changed -- he thought for a moment that she might cry. "It's all right," she murmured. "I understand. I've tried one other time to be so explicit about it with a friend -- he was very uncomfortable with it, even if I didn't tell him quite the way I told you, and he wasn't able to forget it or set it aside for very long. People don't often recognize what being an empath really means, and those who do still don't completely understand. I know you prefer honesty. I'd rather tell you, show you, up front than surprise you with it. I knew that I could trust you to not tell anyone else."

"Correct, on all counts. Thank you."

Her gaze fell, and her weak smile began to fade. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Dee. . . ."

She turned away. "Good night."

"I think. . . ."

"Too much," she finished, moving away from the door. It closed between them. Staring a moment at the seam down the middle, he raised an eyebrow and headed for his quarters.

"I wasn't going to say that," he muttered to himself. Whatever it was he'd been about to say, he knew it hadn't been that, anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

"And this is one of our boring instruments," the Zibyan tour guide said, holding a hand out to indicate the large wheeled piece of mining equipment. Daooan bobbed and nodded in tandem with the guide. The two of them were taller than any of the Federation delegation, covered in wrinkly pink skin and wearing a bare minimum of clothing. Daooan had not introduced their guide by name, nor had he introduced anyone else they happened across. 

Boring -- Jean-Luc agreed with that assessment wholeheartedly. He followed Ambassador Tevan, a polite onlooker as he'd been all afternoon, and wondered again why he had to be there at all. Appearances, of course, but at times diplomacy could be just as boring as a Zibyan mining machine. He kept scanning the rooms as they entered each time, though there had not been anyone yet who so much as looked at them, let alone threatened them.

As the nameless Zibyan finished his monologue on the workings of the machine, simple as they were, he gestured again and led the tour out of the cavernous work room where a dozen of his fellow Zibyans worked on repairing some of the equipment. At regular intervals, they paused as if waiting for instructions, their poses never changing, then resumed what they were doing. Hard to believe this was a warp-capable species, but it often happened that great leaps were made in one area of technology before the rest caught up. It was more telling that the Federation now leaped to offer membership to worlds that had barely made their first journey into space.

While rounding a corner into another hall of rounded walls and no corners, he felt something jab him in the ribs. He realized seconds later, as she forged ahead of him, that Deanna had stuck her thumb in his side. She glanced over her shoulder, smiling knowingly.

Damned empath.

Forcing his mouth straight, he stared at her, admiring her walk until she shot a glare at him. She slowed as the tour guide led them into another room of no real interest to anyone and half-turned, fixing one eye on him.

"You realize I'm not the only empath here?" she murmured. It stopped him cold.

"Oh," he managed at last, regretting his lapse of judgment.

She raised an eyebrow. "Apology accepted. Pay more attention to the boring equipment, sir."

He sighed and applied himself once more to the task at hand.

The Zibyans liked tunneling and mining -- that went without saying. Everywhere one looked on the tour, there were indications of it, from the ore processing facility to the underground gardens. Jean-Luc wondered if the Zibyans had, at some distant point in their history, been ground-dwellers -- the upturned snout and bristly mane around their faces, paired with their apparent fascination with mining and anything related to it, reminded him very much of a mole. All their buildings had rounded-off edges, no corners, and convex walls in all corridors. He had yet to see one more than two stories tall.

The Zibyans were humanoid, pink, with six fingers per hand, four nostrils, and two pale yellow eyes with no apparent pupil or iris. The greeting they'd issued to their Federation visitors reminded Jean-Luc of Risa, only with fewer clothes in evidence. Deanna had covered his shock with her own greeting, though of course the empathic natives had recognized his feelings quickly. Since the initial encounter in the open courtyard filled with naked dancing Zibyans, he'd noticed every Zibyan they'd met afterward wore loose flowing garments, made up of multicolored strips that sometimes showed flashes of pinkish-orange skin.

And then the Zibyans altered their manner -- Daooan had started out with flourishes and mannerisms reminiscent of Lwaxana, but during the course of the tour of the city that changed. Though he still had the same bobbing and oddly-synchronized body language of his fellows, his mannerisms had turned conservative. Perhaps he had thought Lwaxana typified most humanoids of the Federation and wished only to present an agreeable front.

They climbed out of the echoing subterranean chambers of the basement and exited the building. Their tour guide left them and went back inside without a word, but Daooan fluttered his fingers at Tevan as if hoping to distract him from that fact and said, "You must all be our guests. We have made rooms available for your enjoyment. There will be time for more formalities tomorrow -- you are weary from your tour, please allow us to make you comfortable."

Tevan cast a glance at Jean-Luc. "Thank you, Daooan. I must confess that I am not accustomed to so much walking."

"And the tour has not been interesting," Daooan said. "You would likely be disinterested in the remainder of what we had planned to show you."

"The ambassador is not interested in the particulars of mining operations," Deanna said calmly, while Tevan gaped. The Trill turned on her as if to correct her; she kept her focus on Daooan. "Our days are also slightly shorter than yours, and synchronized to a different world -- we are not accustomed to such activity this late. Rest would be welcome."

Waving fingers, Daooan led them away down a wide grassy lane. "Counselor," Tevan growled, half-turning as they walked between low mounded buildings.

"These are empaths. There is no point in lying to them, Ambassador."

"I wasn't going to lie -- "

"There is also no point in lying to me," she continued, staring him down. "We went over this in the debriefing. I realize that you aren't accustomed to dealing with empaths, but I can assure you they're not going to think ill of you for not finding their mining operations very interesting."

"She's quite right, Ambassador."

Tevan glanced at Jean-Luc, gesturing broadly with a hand. "How am I supposed to work with these people? Why weren't telepaths assigned to this?" He grunted and shook his head. "Never mind, I know, but it just seems that someone like me would be less able to work with them. The counselor seems to have a rapport with them, at least."

"You are doing quite well, Ambassador," Deanna said, giving him one of her best reassuring smiles. "The Federation sent you because of your negotiation skills, of course."

It smoothed over the momentary frustration with the situation well enough. Tevan even smiled a little himself. Deanna's expression didn't falter, but she slowed her pace just enough that by the time Daooan entered a sprawling series of attached mounds, she walked behind Jean-Luc.

The ambassador was shown into one of the first rooms they came to. Daooan nodded to the two Zibyans who met them at the door, and one of them left the building while the other preceded them down a dimly-lit tunnel that seemed to run the length of the building, then disappeared into the third door on the right. Daooan led Jean-Luc and Deanna to the second door on the left and pulled aside a heavy green drapery. He let them go first; Deanna went in, and when Jean-Luc hesitated, the Zibyan waved him through, then followed.

"I hope you find the room comfortable. If there is anything you require, please signal using this." Daooan indicated the computer panel on the pale stucco wall. He smiled officiously, bowed, and strode from the room in a swirl of color, leaving Jean-Luc gaping at his back.

He turned to Deanna and had nothing to say. What could he say?

She looked around the room critically. "Somewhat plain, as Mother said, but I think it's nice."

"What do you think so far? Or should we not be discussing this here? Perhaps we should return to the ship."

"They don't mean us any harm. We're not in danger here. It's very interesting that they approached us as my mother must have approached them, and very rapidly picked up a new set of behaviors. Nothing we saw today was representative of their native behavior."

"I did notice that. Perhaps they were only trying to make us feel at ease."

"I don't doubt that. But did you notice they began to mimic the commodore, and you? Daooan's body language changed significantly."

"He kept waving. . . like Tevan. Interesting." He didn't want to know what the Zibyan had been doing to imitate him. "But how are we to learn more about them, if they mimic us?"

"It's probably why the initial findings were so confused." She walked around the bed -- a round canopied affair, with white draperies hanging from a central pole. Pulling back the curtain, she tested the surface. "If they continually mimic the behavior of the people they deal with, and those people don't realize that's what is happening, it could be disorienting. You know this is an alien culture, you beam down and find humanoids who look nothing like anything you've seen before, but they act like you. I could sense the shifting of their emotional state, the measuring and calculating they did each time they altered their behavior. It's almost on a subconscious level. I'd like to try something, with your permission, Captain."

"You want to go out among them by yourself?" A fairly easy guess. But he didn't like the idea at all. While their hosts appeared benign enough, there was something setting him ill at ease. 

"To see if I can mimic their behavior, as they do ours. I can make a more objective report then. It would make a difference in negotiations, if we know more about their unaffected behavior -- it would be very easy for them to misunderstand, if Tevan can't understand how they perceive him."

"Why wasn't your mother able to see what they were doing?"

"As she noted, the Zibyans are telepathically mind-blind. Despite her bluffing, she doesn't invade the privacy of non-telepaths. Empathy isn't quite the same thing."

"I don't like it. The reports didn't mention this facet of Zibyan behavior. Take security with you."

She shook her head and crossed the room to examine the view from the window. "If I take anyone with me it will affect the outcome of my observations. I'm not even certain I can manage to mimic them. They may turn into mirrors of me. This is a totally reactive culture, Captain, and that's highly unusual. They interact with each other empathically, without thinking about it, without realizing it sometimes. It takes significant effort for any single person to interact with us. It's almost like a. . . ."

"Collective," he finished for her.

Deanna came to him and stood at attention in front of him. "It isn't a malevolent kind of collective. I can feel them all around us -- it's different than being on the Enterprise, harmonious and synchronized, but they're not like the Borg. They still maintain individuality. They mean us no ill will. I don't think they could harm us -- they would feel our pain, if they caused us any."

"Why did they put us in this room?"

"I'm not certain." She was tense; now she couldn't seem to meet his eyes. 

He responded in a mild chastising tone, attempting to soften his words with a little humor. "You're not lying very convincingly. Something I find odd, for someone who beat me at poker so many times."

Her eyes came up and clouded over with disapproval. "Think about it and decide if you want to ask that again."

"You mean they can tell I find you attractive and assumed we would want to be together. Except I doubt that Tevan is entirely immune -- he glanced your way a few times. You've been very formal with him, and I've seen enough of your interactions with other ambassadors to know you aren't always that formal. Are you reacting to something you sense from him, perhaps?" He hadn't liked the way Tevan was behaving toward her, but refused to step in unless she requested his intervention. 

"I'll be back shortly, Captain," she snapped, eyes flashing. She shoved aside the drapery and marched out, leaving him in a state of shock. She hadn't even asked him what he wanted her to do, had dismissed the idea of security -- maybe having a counselor who was also a full commander had its down side.

Moments later, Daooan returned. He knew it was Daooan only by his height and the color of his mane -- dark brown instead of pinkish. "We have brought food," he announced, holding open the drapery to let in four smaller Zibyans bearing platters.

"I wasn't -- " But he was hungry. Some of it actually smelled pretty good. He watched them decorate the table near a window covered with slotted curtains. A very colorful array of items, mostly round. The four scuttled out as if fleeing, and Daooan bowed.

"I am sorry you quarreled with your mate."

This was one of those times that giving in to the misconception seemed preferable. Explaining could be difficult, if Daooan insisted on knowing why the emotion didn't match the explanation. "She is not my mate. Merely an officer on my ship. Is there somewhere else she could stay?"

The fixed nature of the Zibyan's faces made expressions impossible, but Jean-Luc got the distinct impression that the alien's stare meant disbelief. Pale yellow eyes trained themselves on his face unblinkingly for too long. Then he bobbed his head once.

"My apologies. We will prepare another room for her." Daooan swept from the room in a swirl of his rainbow-colored streamer robe.

Almost an hour later, after he'd sampled most of the food and actually started to relax somewhat, his communicator chirped. He sat up, nearly overbalancing himself -- the bed was more like a cot or hammock, a thick layer of fabric stretched over a framework, and loose enough to be precarious -- and tapped his comm badge.

"Picard here."

"Captain, this is Troi. I've been wandering around the square talking to people. I was right -- they're mirroring me too well. This is going to be more difficult than I thought."

"I've been thinking about that. Perhaps we ought to ask Data to investigate further. He would be able to gather accurate information about the Zibyans objectively."

A pause. "That's an excellent suggestion, Captain. Do you want me to continue here, or return to the ship?"

"You're going to let me make a decision now?"

Another, longer pause. "I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

"I hope not. I see I'm not the only one who's a little off center?"

"Sir. . . ."

"I'll expect a full report at your earliest convenience, Commander. Daooan informs me there will be another room prepared for you. If you'd like, you could join me for dinner. There's enough food here for ten people."

"I'll be there shortly. Troi out."

She meant 'shortly' when she said it. He heard her coming down the corridor and was standing near the table when she walked in, all officer, cool eyes and stiff posture.

"There's something else at work here. I can sense it when you and the ambassadors aren't near enough to cause interference."

"Can you describe it?"

"Not. . . really. It feels like a different sort of consciousness. Very faint, and difficult to distinguish from the Zibyans around me. It may even be a part of them, a level of thought I can't read. It will be interesting to see what Data can observe. Their unaffected behavior may give us some clues." As she spoke, her gaze dropped gradually until her eyes were hidden behind her lashes and eyelids.

"Why are you looking at the floor? It's a very pretty mosaic, but still."

"I'm sorry. I'll understand if you put me on report." She looked miserable now. He had to take a moment to decide if she was correct and that needed to happen.

"There was no harm done, other than a brief bit of shock and then paranoia that I may lose another officer to captaincy sometime soon."

"Captain? Me?" She gaped at him. "I couldn't."

"Oh, really? You've come a long way from that counselor I brought on board years ago. Which reminds me -- why are you still aboard? Not that I want you to go anywhere, but it does make me curious. You've certainly had offers. Haven't you?"

He began picking things from the buffet and gathering them in one of the green metal basins that passed for plates. She moved as if in a dream state and picked a blue fruit from a basket, turning it over and over in her fingers.

"The _Enterprise_ is my home," she said at last.

"For the moment."

"I don't want to leave. I don't want command. Not permanently. It would keep me from counseling." She still sounded timid. He didn't care for it, though it wasn't the first time she'd been so anxious.

"Probably, but you'd be good at it." He looked up from his food and found her staring at him. "What is it?"

She flinched and turned her attention to the fruit in her hands as she peeled it. "How did you convince Daooan to give me a room?"

"He said he was sorry I quarreled with my mate. I corrected him."

She turned away as if fascinated by the array of food on the table, too casually. "Really."

"You're very aware of my feelings. It would follow that Daooan is, too. But that's not the only reason he put us in the same room, is it?"

She tossed a curl of blue peel to the table and started on a new section. "I don't know. Why didn't you ask him?"

"I wanted to ask you. I asked you what we're doing -- you made it clear what you wanted. Or so I thought."

"I haven't changed my mind about it." She tore off a piece of the yellow flesh inside the blue peel and slipped it into her mouth. "Mother liked this?" Wincing, she put the rest on the table.

"Try one of these." He chose a red globe twice the size of a grape and put it in her mouth. Once she got over the surprise at the gesture, she bit into it and her eyes widened.

"OW!" She spat it into her hand and fanned her red face with her other hand, eyes watering.

"Wrong red thing -- I meant to give you -- "

"You're trying to kill me," she gasped, reaching for a decanter and a cup, both of the same beaten green metal as the basin. He poured for her and tried not to laugh at her situation.

"I suppose that's revenge for the incident on Amag Six," she said when she'd regained composure somewhat.

"Did you know you were handing me a glass of imitation molten lava?"

"No."

"Then we're even. I'm sorry. I wouldn't have given you something like that intentionally."

"Is there anything else on this table that will sear my skin on contact, or make my hair fall out?"

"Not that I'm aware of. Of course, you wouldn't be able to tell by looking at me if anything made your hair fall out."

She laughed into her cup while taking another sip, almost dropping it, and rubbed her eye with her knuckles. "No, there's still a little hair left on your head. I could tell. What was it you were intending to give me, before you tried to burn a hole in my jaw?"

The other fruit had a slightly-rougher texture, and a deeper red; he had been paying more attention to her than his selection, he realized. Picking one up, he put it in her mouth as before, but with an awareness of what he was doing. He brushed her cheek with his knuckles briefly before withdrawing.

She didn't react to the gesture, other than to look away from his face. "This one is very sweet. Much better. Thank you."

"Deanna, don't ignore me. Look at me."

"I should be going." But she didn't move.

"We need to talk. I think you know why."

Her eyes flicked up from whatever invisible point in the air between them she'd been staring at. "You don't know me well enough, Jean-Luc."

"What is enough? What else should I know?"

"I should return to the ship. I wouldn't be able to sleep surrounded by unfamiliar minds -- good night, Captain."

He watched her turn away, shocked again. "Deanna, stop. Don't run away from this."

"I'm sorry," she said, turning away and raising a hand to her comm badge. "I have to go walk the elephant. Troi to Enterprise, one to beam up."

 

* * *

 

 

"Sir, I could not get any of them to acknowledge my presence."

"What?" Jean-Luc sat back in his chair and looked at his first officer in mild surprise. His other officers sat with them in the briefing room, listening, and Deanna particularly seemed intrigued by this. He'd spent a restless and mostly sleepless night on the planet, and returned to the ship for the briefing with the senior staff, leaving Tevan to continue building a rapport with Daooan.

"Perhaps because they could not sense him empathically," Deanna said. "Describe what you observed of their behavior while you were among them, Data."

"They behaved much the same as any other humanoid culture -- in the market area, I observed twenty-two transactions between customers and shopkeepers, six apparent reunions between lovers, ten children playing in a play area, and two hundred forty-two passers-by walking along the street. I attempted to stand in the path of several people, and none of them stopped or looked at me. They stepped around me and kept walking. I spoke to several and again was ignored."

"Was there anything else that was unusual?" Jean-Luc asked.

"I thought it strange at first that no one spoke. I reasoned afterward that this was due to their empathic ability."

"They could communicate on that plane, but -- you said there were transactions being made? Did it appear to you that there might be negotiating of any kind going on? Anything that would indicate communication."

Deanna's question puzzled the android. "I believe there may have been. Some of them took longer to complete, and there were occasional hand gestures."

"Then there must have been some sort of exchange of information. They couldn't do that empathically." She looked at Jean-Luc, too obviously cutting herself short of completing her thought.

He almost smiled at how suddenly subservient she'd become -- the previous day's minor insubordination had rattled her. He noticed Carlisle, the second officer, glancing at her curiously. So he noticed the change, too.

"Perhaps we should simply ask," Jean-Luc said after pondering for a bit. "If you were to question it, Counselor, they might construe it as simple curiosity on your part, and Command's concern would be assuaged that easily. Further efforts at direct observation might raise suspicion unnecessarily. I think that until this has been investigated thoroughly, however, that shore leave should be postponed. We have all been invited down for a banquet later today. Dress uniforms by thirteen hundred hours. Counselor Troi will go down herself, now, to discuss it further with Daooan. Dismissed."

Carlisle, deLio the security chief, Geordi, and Data filed out slowly. Mengis passed a padd down the table to Jean-Luc. "My final reports on the annual physicals, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary to report."

"Thank you, Doctor."

Mengis' thin black mustache twitched; his green eyes appraised Deanna, who still sat across the table from him.

"Is something wrong, Dr. Mengis?"

"No. Nothing, Captain." He rose, smoothed his uniform, and marched out of the room. Deanna slumped as the doors closed behind him and rested her forehead in her hand.

"Deanna?"

"Yes, sir?" Her hand dropped, and the counselor was back.

"When you beam down, you're taking deLio and at least two other security officers with you. Let me finish," he exclaimed, holding up a hand to forestall her protest. "Find the ambassador, and make certain he stays with security. deLio will stay with you. Until we know more, this feels like a suspicious situation. These people approached the Federation for membership, and they're eager to push it forward. One delegation of highly-capable people has come away from this planet with vague reports. Is it possible their minds may have been tampered with somehow, to alter their memories? Do you think the Zibyans are deliberately hiding something?"

"I sense no subterfuge, but as we've noted, that doesn't mean there is none. I'll discuss it with Daooan. He seemed the most helpful of the Zibyans we've met."

He smiled, glancing down at the padd Mengis had given him. "There's just one more thing. . . ."

"Yes, sir?"

"I owe you an apology."

"Captain, you don't have to apologize -- "

"I most certainly do. Last night, I wanted to talk to you, but I think you might have misconstrued." He met her gaze, turning his chair a few more inches to face her across the corner of the table. 

"This isn't -- "

"The place, or the time, but I wanted you to know. We need to discuss this."

"Rebound -- "

"I realize, but Deanna, there's more to this than just that." He leaned elbows on the table. "They weren't responding only to me, were they, when they put us in that room together?"

"I told you there was a mutual attraction between us," she said, without flinching. "I told you -- "

"You rejected Will, and I rejected Beverly. Between the two of us, we've managed to break apart Camelot. That's why you were crying after we got those messages from Beverly. Except you have a double measure of guilt to contend with, don't you?"

Panic stole color from her cheeks and made her eyes swim in unshed tears. She fidgeted and shoved her chair back.

"You feel guilty because the elephant's name is Beverly. You know she's in pain because of me. You think allowing yourself to get closer to me is a betrayal of your friendship."

"Sir -- "

"But you went with me to the holodeck anyway. You went riding with me anyway. You got angry at the Zibyans for tipping your hand early. In part, my suspicion of the Zibyans is due to your reaction to them -- but don't let personal emotions cloud your judgement, Counselor. I'm relying on you to sort this out. I can't. I wish I could, but I'm not an empath, and I'd need that advantage to even the odds."

"Sir, please -- "

"You never really answered me, when I asked you why you remain aboard the Enterprise -- I know about the offers, Deanna. I hear complaints sometimes from the people who make them. So we're going to discuss it tonight, in my quarters."

A variety of descriptions for her expression ran through his mind, but the best suited one was 'poleaxed.' The only consolation -- and it felt odd, that it should console him -- was that she had to sense the wrenching in his gut at seeing the look on her face.

"I've seen you give as good as you get, Deanna," he said softly. "I've heard you field pickup lines from attractive men of all ranks. You shouldn't have reacted that way to a simple verbal acknowledgment of an attraction you already knew I felt. It took me a while. You're very good at distracting me the moment you sense I'm putting things together, but Daooan's behavior made it clear. I'll be uncorking a bottle of wine at eighteen hundred hours, after the banquet. It's up to you whether I'll drink alone."

She clenched her hands, opened them slowly, and rose from the chair, standing stiffly with her eyes closed. He realized after a few moments what she was waiting for.

"You're dismissed, Commander."

He wondered, as she strode from the room, if he weren't about to lose another officer. Had he pushed her too hard? Sitting back, he stared at the closed door for a while, thinking, then forced his attention to duty. The elephant was in her court, and there were many hours left in the day to see to other matters.

He went to his ready room, made a note as he sat down to visit sickbay -- the Zibyan's hospitality notwithstanding, he didn't care to sleep in that bed again as he'd managed to pull a muscle he didn't know he had in his lower back -- and read a message from Command regarding the upcoming training maneuvers they would be participating in while the ambassador remained on Zibyan for extended negotiations, if all went well. Data came in then with one of those excessively-boring but necessary reports on the ship's status.

They were halfway done with it when Data suddenly looked up at him. "Sir, is the counselor all right?"

"What?"

"The counselor seemed unusually anxious after the briefing. I detected a significant increase in respiration and -- "

"Data, do you monitor everyone's heart rate all the time?"

The android must have his emotion chip turned off for the day; he was impassive as he'd been before the chip's installation. "No. However, the counselor has been exhibiting strange behavior for several days."

"Is this something of which you feel the ship's captain should be made aware?"

"You and the counselor have always been good friends. I thought that -- "

"Commander, the counselor's private life is beyond the purview of official Starfleet business. We were discussing ship's business. I'd appreciate it if you would continue."

"Of course, sir." Except Data's mouth quirked oddly, at one corner. Hm.

"Data, what are you up to?"

"Sir?" The quirk became more of a smile.

"You are now wearing what the estimable Mr. Riker would refer to as a 'shit-eating grin.' You are up to something."

"Captain, if you would refer to section six-two paragraph three of my report -- "

Jean-Luc tossed his padd on the desk with a clatter. "Data!"

"I find it interesting that you and Deanna have begun to spend more time together on a casual basis."

"I went riding with the counselor once. Why is it that I can play handball with deLio, practice flute and clarinet duets with Malia Ching, and occasionally lunch with various individual members of the crew, and you suddenly assume -- "

"Because before she beamed down, she asked me to give you this." Data picked up something from the floor at his feet -- it was the wrapped package he'd noticed the android carrying around. "Is not the giving of presents for no particular reason a romantic gesture?"

"How do you know there is no particular reason?"

"Humans give gifts on birthdays, anniversaries, and in the various segments of human civilization, different cultural holidays. Since it is not your birthday, nor is it any French holiday, nor is it any Betazoid -- "

"Data, enough. Wipe that look off your face and finish your report." Jean-Luc shoved the box to one side, picked up the padd, and tolerated the brief reappearances of the shit-eating grin throughout Data's crew evaluations. He considered ordering the android to forget about the gift, but refrained. Damn it, what was Deanna thinking?

When Data stood upon dismissal, he paused. "Sir?"

"What is it now?"

"I believe the two of you would make. . . a lovely couple."

He had to be doing this to see the reaction. Had he been baiting Deanna this way? Jean-Luc stared icily at the android, then sighed. Pointless.

"Thank you, but you're being premature, Data."

"Then I should return the wedding gift?"

"Data, remember when you asked me to let you know when you crossed the line from humor to annoying? You've overshot the mark by a few parsecs."

"Sorry, sir." Data left the ready room briskly.

Jean-Luc stared at the box, then tore the paper from one end and slid the package out of the shiny black paper. Black? He wondered if it symbolized anything. Popping the lid open, he frowned, then realized there were two items, one on top and the other wrapped in tissue paper beneath it.

She'd replicated the colored-glass water lily from Maman's heirloom collection. Setting it aside, he unwrapped the tissue paper -- a swan, just like the one Deanna had held on the holodeck.

Taking the paper and box to the recycler, he paused as he shoved them in, and held up the paper, tearing it apart the rest of the way. There were dancing elephants printed on the white side of the wrapping paper.

He was still staring at it when the communicator chirped. "Data to Captain Picard."

"Yes, what is it?"

"The counselor is ten minutes late for call-in. Commander deLio reported on time, and said that Commander Troi went to speak with Daooan approximately forty-five minutes ago. She insisted that he wait outside. She is not responding to hails."

"Sensors?"

"We cannot detect Betazoid life signs, or her comm badge signal."

Jean-Luc stopped short of swearing. Setting his jaw, he dropped the paper in the recycler. "Beam up the rest of the away team and the ambassador. Have security remain in the transporter room -- I'm. . . sending you down there to find Daooan and demand an explanation. I'll meet you in the transporter room in five minutes. Picard out."

He lingered, looked at the flower and swan, then strode from the ready room.


	3. Chapter 3

Jean-Luc woke -- not for the first time. He stared out at the stars, lying on his back on top of the covers, still in uniform, hating the irony of this. Every time he started to let himself care about a woman too much, the fates turned against him. Every bloody time.

He sat up. Got up. Paced around the room. "Hell. Lights."

The walls confined too much. There wasn't enough room to pace. Not enough air to breath.

He couldn't do a damn thing about this. Security was looking for her, supposedly the Zibyans were, and nothing yet. So much for meaning no harm. Daooan and the other Zibyans mirrored the away team's concern, Data had said, but could not explain how or why anyone would kidnap Deanna.

Nearly six hours, and not a clue of where she'd gone. Jean-Luc couldn't stifle the growing dread -- if she could, she would have done something by now. He couldn't use his rank to do anything more than he'd already done, and he wasn't certain there was anything else to be done. Hating the helplessness, he scanned the room, thinking of books to read and dismissing each title that came to mind. He couldn't read. He didn't feel like listening to music, either, and he didn't feel like going anywhere in public. At this point the anguish he felt probably showed too plainly.

The swan and lily were sitting on the table where he'd left them several hours ago, when he'd given in to Data's insistence and tried to get some sleep. He stared at them for a few moments, thinking about Deanna handing him the flower and ordering him to throw it, and about her sitting cross-legged in his tree house.

There had to be something he could do. He couldn't tolerate this waiting. It only gave him too much time to think about opportunities he'd missed, either by fate taking someone away or by mistakes committed with good intentions.

This situation was unacceptable.

Snatching up the lily, he flung it as hard as he could.

The glass shattered explosively against the wall, showering the bed with pieces. He was out the door almost before the last piece fell. Fortunate that the turbolift car was empty when he burst into it.

Data eyed him reproachfully when he burst out of the turbolift onto the bridge, but said nothing. "Report," he barked, rushing down the ramp, an ensign jumping out of his way.

"Search parties have not found her yet, sir. But the Zibyan government has been most helpful in -- "

"If they're so damned helpful, why haven't they just sensed where the hell my officer is and told us?"

"Apparently, their empathy has no directional capability." Data alone remained calm; Jean-Luc's anger seemed to make the ensign at the helm a little nervous, and Carlisle turned away a little too quickly, hiding a smile. The thought that rumors were already flying only served to fan the flames. Jean-Luc glared at the back of the man's head and prowled up behind him.

"Is there something amusing you, Mr. Carlisle?" he whispered.

Carlisle's head whipped around, and he blanched and almost fell out of his chair at the sight of the captain so close at hand. "No, sir!"

"Good officers are hard to find, Mr. Carlisle."

"Yes, sir!"

Jean-Luc paced a circle in front of his chair, looking around the bridge. There wasn't a one of them who'd been in Starfleet for more than five years. They were sending him children. This was the flagship of the fleet, and over half his crew had less experience and more hormones than sense.

"Data, my ready room, please."

When the door closed, Data started talking, even before they reached the desk. "I must apologize for -- "

"For what, Starfleet's new policy of staffing ships with grass-green officers? That isn't why I asked you in here. I'm going down to the planet."

"Sir -- "

"Data, of everyone on this ship, with whom would you say the counselor is most familiar?"

"That would have to be you, me, and Geordi, sir."

"And her empathy does have a directional capability. If she's conscious and able to sense me, she might find a way to contact me. Locating her is imperative -- she sensed something different about them before she vanished, and finding her could be the key to uncovering whatever secrets these people are trying to hide from us."

"Which will affect the decision to allow them Federation membership."

"Frankly, I don't give a damn what they're hiding -- my officer is missing and I have the feeling their attempts to help are a smokescreen. That's enough reason for me to pull out of here the instant we find her. Her report alone will turn the balance, no doubt."

"May I suggest that you take extra security with you, sir?"

"No concerned first officer's lecture, Data?"

"I have the feeling that would be futile, sir."

 

* * *

 

 

"Do we have another plan of action, sir?" deLio asked.

"A moment, Commander." Jean-Luc squinted in the afternoon sunlight at long rows of pink, cornerless buildings. He could almost hear the rumors -- he went crazy searching for her, snapped at Carlisle on the bridge, beamed down himself, marched all over the city --

He stopped short of the next corner. The building where they had been given rooms stood in front of him. He'd walked in a huge circle. He wished he could just reach out and talk to her mind to mind, ask her where she'd disappeared to. There had to be something he was missing, some vital clue that would tell him where to look.

"Captain!"

He turned, and swallowed rage -- Daooan fluttered down the street toward him, knobby arms out, acting like --

Like Lwaxana Troi, in full happy-nonsense-making mode.

Spinning about in a full circle, he saw other Zibyans lifting their arms and starting to prance. This was odd behavior, after seeing them adapt to Tevan and the rest of the delegation -- why revert to this? Shaking his finger at them and grinning unabashedly, he glanced at deLio, whose pendulous ears bobbed as he shook his head in bemusement.

"It's her. This is Deanna! She's doing that!"

"Sir?"

"Find the center of this phenomena. She'll be somewhere close. Get more men -- call in the search parties! Forget questioning them. Track them!"

He ran past Daooan, who fluttered his hands in the air at him -- but more Zibyan were orienting on him. All of them mimicked Lwaxana right down to the obsessive focus on him.

Although. . . .

He stopped, and the Zibyans gathered around him, then moved him along. Maybe all the searching wouldn't be necessary?

He tapped his comm badge. "Data, keep a transporter lock on me. Something is happening. I think Deanna's trying to use the Zibyans to lead me to her."

"Acknowledged, Captain. But we still cannot locate her comm signal -- if she is beyond some sort of dampening field -- "

"Security is converging on my location. Picard out."

The Zibyans stopped moving him along and began swinging their arms in a familiar way. As if swinging picks, he realized. They were swinging picks at the street. Opening his tricorder, he quickly scanned the immediate area, as security officers came around the corners on either side of him at a run.

_Deanna, come on, where's the way down? I can't just dig --_

deLio came to his side. "Sir?"

"They're digging, as if with picks -- mining implements. They stopped right here. Look for some way to go down -- Wait. How dense of me! This way."

He ran into the nearest building, which looked just like the others, except for the fact that all the Zibyans were oriented on it. Once inside he knew what he'd suspected -- it was the one they'd been in during the tour of the mining facility.

deLio and the security team came in behind him, crowding the small foyer. "Tricorders are not functioning properly," deLio said, glancing up from his. He scanned the dim interior and shook his head barely hard enough to wobble his jowls. "What is this place?"

"There's a network of subterranean chambers -- "

"Sir!" came a cry from the back of the group. The lieutenant in the door pointed outside. "The Zibyans are coming this way, lots of them, and they're not playing charades any more!"

Jean-Luc hurried down a corridor, pulling his phaser. When he stopped at a junction to get his bearings he noted the rest of the team followed and also had phasers out. A handful of Zibyans came out of a door at the end of the hall and rushed at him. A quick check of the phaser setting and he stunned them, on the lowest setting.

"Sir -- "

"I know, deLio. But procedure doesn't take into account things like hive minds and senseless kidnappings. Set phasers on stun, low level. Something tells me we're going to have a lot of -- "

"Captain Picard," one of the lieutenants exclaimed. Jean-Luc looked behind them, and strode toward where the six security officers held Daooan at phaser point. The Zibyan was alone, and stood holding his hands out to show they were empty.

"Where is my officer?" Jean-Luc snapped.

Daooan flinched away from him. "She is near."

"So you finally admit you know something of her whereabouts -- why are you holding her? You know this will destroy any chance of Federation membership."

"It is unfortunate that your landing party was killed while searching the mines for your missing officer, who was also found dead," Daooan said calmly. "You will give me your weapons. We have you outnumbered. You have no hope of escape."

As he quickly assessed the situation, Jean-Luc realized that he had just been manipulated -- anger and anguish at the ease with which he had been trapped so easily flooded him. "What do you want, Daooan? Why must you kill people to get it?" he exclaimed. Then it struck him that Deanna probably was in fact dead -- if the Zibyans had wanted to manipulate them into this situation, using her as bait would have been a logical thing for them to do. And miming Lwaxana would have been an easy guess. The pick motions might have been something they sifted from anyone's thoughts, if Deanna had been correct about their functioning telepathically on a different 'frequency.' During the tour he'd thought about picks, and other mining implements with which he was familiar.

"We do not want you dead, Captain." More Zibyans appeared behind the alien. "You will continue in the direction you were walking. After you give me your weapons and your badges."

He glared at the alien, battling fury and the loss he felt. There had to be a way out of this. But the other Zibyans had weapons of their own, all pointed at him.

"Where is my officer?"

Daooan put out a hand. "Your communications have been jammed. We isolated the frequencies you use yesterday. Give me the weapons, Captain, and you and your party will remain alive."

"If you want hostages -- "

"You are only prolonging the inevitable, Captain."

He shot the Zibyan point-blank, catching the armed aliens behind him as well. Footsteps running their way promised reinforcements. "One of us must get free of the building, out of the jamming field, and try to contact the ship," he exclaimed. "Keep stunning them."

But as the next wave of Zibyans clambered over their fellows and rounded the corner, they dropped the weapons they held and screeched, hands to heads, reeling around and bumping into each other before falling down to writhe on the floor. One of them rolled and almost struck Jean-Luc's leg with his head.

"Hive mind," Jean-Luc said. "Two of you, get out and call for reinforcements. The rest of us are going ahead."

deLio selected two of the other five security officers and sent them on their way, then followed hard on Jean-Luc's heels on the way down the sloping shaft into the underground chambers.

"Which way?" deLio asked upon reaching the first of the chambers and failing to find anything useful with the tricorder. "The dampening field is in effect here. Our sensor equipment cannot penetrate the walls."

All of the rooms, as Jean-Luc remembered from the tour, branched into other corridors and chambers -- the place was a maze and he couldn't remember anything useful.

Zibyans lay on the floor here and there, tools they'd been using fallen at their sides. Some of them slowly staggered to their feet. One began moving toward them; the security officers brought their weapons to bear, but as Jean-Luc felt renewed anxiety at the realization that they would soon be overwhelmed, the Zibyans collapsed again.

That was it -- Deanna had to be causing this, and reacting to his reactions. He focused on the puzzlement and needing to find her as deLio began another attempt with the tricorder. Hopefully she would get the message.

Through the chambers, a hollow metallic clang echoed faintly. Jean-Luc exchanged glances with the rest of the team. "It's not a Zibyan," he guessed aloud, heading that direction.

They followed the sound through a maze of chambers, deLio recording their progress with the tricorder, and each time Jean-Luc felt lost another clang sounded the way. They passed through several chambers he was certain weren't included on the tour, then went down a long tunnel that ended in a chamber from which the only egress seemed to be a pair of closed metal doors.

"This is promising," one of the lieutenants said, his sarcasm echoing in the dim tunnel.

The pattern of lights on the panel to the right of the door changed, and it slid open. deLio hesitated with the rest of them, phaser out, then leaned to peer one way, then the other, keeping his weapon ready. Then hurried through.

Jean-Luc was after him in seconds, and rounded the corner to find that the door had opened into an alcove, which in turn opened on a large domed chamber that initially registered as a chamber of horrors. Small containers that resembled caskets were mounted in racks, all of them attached to panels along the walls. The few lights were mounted high overhead and barely illuminated the room. What was most notable was Deanna, leaning on a console not far from the door. deLio had rushed to her side.

"I'm all right," she said, in spite of the fact that she neither looked nor sounded that way. Her jacket, and the comm badge and her pips, were missing. The sleeve of her blue shirt had been torn off, and large bruises that followed patterns indicative of being manhandled by six-fingered hands had blossomed on her white skin. Something had been stuck in her upper arm; blood dribbled from beneath the broken device still clinging to her skin.

Jean-Luc stared at her a moment longer, then tried to ask for information -- the words wouldn't come. deLio was looking to him, and the other officers were looking around, studying the caskets and a handful of unconscious Zibyans on the floor. Finally it burst from him in a surge of anger at the situation.

"What the hell is going on? Where have you been? I expect better behavior from my bridge officers, Commander!"

The security officers jumped -- except deLio, who probably wouldn't jump if someone fired a photon torpedo up his shorts. The L'norim rivaled the Vulcans for their stoicism.

She wouldn't look at him. "The nexus of the hive mind is here, contained in those boxes," she said, trying to be calm in spite of tears. "If you stand this close to it and lean on a broken leg, you can disable the entire population."

After trying his comm badge without success, Jean-Luc glanced around. "deLio, let's get someone back out with a map through this place and get a medical team in here?"

deLio moved off, ordering two of his men to take their tricorders and return to the surface. "Sir, there are other corridors -- "

"Secure the area," Jean-Luc said, finishing the thought. Though if all the Zibyans were down, there would be no need. He turned again to Deanna as security departed in two directions.

"You shouldn't frighten your officers that way, Captain. Shame on you, keelhauling the counselor like that, especially when she looks like she's been drugged, beaten and locked in a claustrophobic little cell where she broke nails and a leg trying to escape." High marks for effort, but her voice betrayed pain and tears.

"What the hell happened to you? How did they do this? Why?"

She smiled at him through her tears, actually looking fondly at him in spite of his demands. "Hive minds get bored, apparently. As they attained warp capability, they met other interstellar travelers, and found that alien emotions can be stimulating. There are a half dozen Ferengi back there, drugged with mild tranquilizers and restrained but otherwise unharmed. They've been in here a while. When I woke up, one of them happened to also be awake -- I had an enlightening conversation with him. The drugs keep you pacifistic, the cells keep you locked in place, and all the Zibyans want, apparently, is the new source of emotional feedback. They have no sense of individual rights, no sense of IDIC -- their preservation of their society is all. The Ferengi came here to negotiate a trade deal and were trapped. The Zibyans learned about the Federation from them. The Zibyans were perfectly happy to play host to them as long as they wanted to stay, but when they tried to leave, they were drugged and brought here -- the Zibyans are most interested in their dreams. Waking emotions are stronger than they like, and of course, captives are prone to anger and fear unless drugged. They let the first diplomatic team go because there was no conclusion -- when I started asking more intrusive questions they removed me from the situation by force."

She shifted her weight, still holding her left foot off the floor, and winced as she slowly leaned on it. Head bowed, she rested her cheek on her arm, all her hair tumbling forward.

"Commander?"

"Just. . . a minute." She tossed her hair back as she stood on the right leg again and planted both hands on the console, panting slightly. She'd gone pale and more tears ran down her face. "They were starting to wake up again. They can't handle pain. The instant one of them is hurt, they simply kill him as quickly as possible. When you stunned them, it put the entire population on the defensive."

"They can't take any pain at all? That seems... unlikely."

She shook her head. "This is a community of empaths who purposefully linked themselves together. A new development for them, that came with technological advancement. I can only imagine what their motives might have been in doing it. Anything one of them feels, all of them do, and it reverberates throughout the link because they have no blocking mechanism -- and I'm so close to the nexus that I can tap into it with a little effort. When they realized what I was doing to get your attention, one of the Daooan came after me. There are many of them, all alike. They tend the nexus and have a little more initiative than the others. I'd managed to get my arm free of the cell -- it's really a booth with restraints -- and he bruised me trying to get it back in place, and overreacted to that pain. So I fought back, hard, and tranquilized him with his own drug."

"And he broke your leg?" He looked down at her left leg, though there were no overt signs of injury. The black uniform pants were pretty durable; hers were dusty but still in one piece.

"There are several levels in the chamber where they keep the cells. I was one level up. When I got out of the cell, I was too disoriented to walk straight and they don't believe in railings. I fell off the walkway and hit the floor feet first. When I woke, I sensed your presence and with some experimentation figured out how to take advantage of the nexus." She leaned heavily against the console, then swayed and lost her balance.

He caught her arm as she sagged. "Stay with me, Commander," he exclaimed, lowering her to the floor and propping her against the console. "Deanna?"

"I'll be all right. It's just whatever they gave me -- and shock, and now there are reinforcements on the way. . . ."

Her eyes fluttered shut and her head fell forward as her body went slack. Jean-Luc picked her up, not liking the odds if the Zibyans woke up. "deLio! We're getting out of here!"

All three officers came out the door to their immediate right. "I have scans of the -- is the counselor -- "

"Unconscious, but that means we have a limited amount of time before the Zibyans recover. Let's get moving. Did you find anyone else?"

"Yes, there were six Ferengi. We freed them from their restraints and offered them help, but they refused and left through a side tunnel. I do not think they will get very far."

"We'll look for them when we're in a better position to defend ourselves. After you."

deLio headed for the exit, and the other two security officers followed Jean-Luc. Deanna was a dead weight in his arms, limbs swaying as he walked, and he tried not to think of what might happen if the Zibyans had injected her with something that would prove fatal to Betazoids.

He didn't get far before the pulled muscle he'd neglected acted up. In the panic of finding out Deanna had gone missing, he'd never gotten to sickbay. His back went into spasm as he entered the alcove, and Deanna woke suddenly.

"Put me down," she said, surprisingly alert. He let her slide out of his arms, balancing her as she landed on her good leg. But she pulled away from him and leaned, hands against the wall, inched down, and picked up a length of what looked like pipe.

He barely had time to jump backward out of her way when, without warning, she swung it two-handed at the open door. Daooan appeared there just in time to meet the end of the pipe, which sank into his head with a fleshy crunch. He screamed, and simultaneously what sounded like a hundred screams joined his.

Deanna dropped the pipe, which sounded a familiar clang as it fell against the wall -- that must be what she used to signal them earlier, striking it against the doors -- and slid, back to the wall, until she sat on the floor, a stifled sob erupting as she dug the heels of her hands into her eyes.

"Captain!" came a welcome shout, and Data was at the door. "We were attempting to get to you with the help of -- "

"And you were captured by hordes of Zibyans, and suddenly they all fell down holding their heads," Jean-Luc finished for him. "Because the counselor saw to it that we wouldn't all be joining the Zibyan collective."

"Do you have to shout so loud?" Deanna complained faintly.

"Data, there must be a panel somewhere around that operates the dampening field. Let's get it turned off. There are six Ferengi who were also prisoners wandering about who will likely need medical assistance. deLio, I suggest tranquilizing whatever that is in the chamber that's controlling the Zibyans for the duration, so we don't have to keep hurting them. The medical team should be able to assist to that end. In the meantime, I'm taking the counselor back to the ship." He held out a hand as he spoke. She took it, let him pull her up, and leaned heavily on him, hopping on one foot.

"Are you all right, Deanna?" Data asked.

"If that's an honest inquiry, I think you need your eyes checked, Commander," she muttered, sounding like she was in tears again.

"Data, pick her up and put her out where one of the medics can help her."

The android swung her up effortlessly, as if she were a small child. Jean-Luc followed him into the chamber, stepping over Zibyans sprawling everywhere where they'd fallen. After depositing her on the floor in an open space apart from unconscious Zibyans and arriving security and medical personnel, Data crossed to the exit, probably looking for the doctor.

Jean-Luc stood over her, arms crossed, and the knot in his stomach unwound slightly as she seemed to recover a little more. Enough to look up at him without squinting through pain-wracked eyes, anyway, though she still looked pale and wrung out.

"Your back pain woke me up, or I wouldn't have sensed him coming," she said.

"So for once being a masochist came in handy?"

She frowned in mild reproach. "You should have it looked at."

"Later. It's not that bad."

Mengis approached, and Data's orders to the other officers echoed back to them as he took charge of the situation. Jean-Luc hovered over his counselor until everything but the broken leg had been healed; that would take sickbay. The doctor removed the device from her arm and healed the wound, administered pain killers, applied a pressure cuff to stabilize the broken leg, then put a hand on her shoulder and smiled at her.

"You'll be fine, Deanna. There's nothing the osteoregenerator won't take care of once we beam aboard," Mengis said.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said faintly. She still looked pale. Her eyes slid right, to meet Jean-Luc's.

Mengis glanced at Jean-Luc and straightened, closing his medkit, and followed the rest of the landing party to study the nexus and see what he could do to temporarily disable it.

"Excellent work, Commander," Jean-Luc said. He helped her up again.

"Thank you, Captain." She hopped, a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. "Excuse me, but you're the only thing I have in the way of a crutch. Just prop me against the wall until it's time to leave."

"We're leaving. You're going to sickbay." He picked her up again.

"Your back -- "

"Shut up."

"It's too far to -- "

"I said, shut up -- Commander. Shame on you for not waiting for me to rescue you."

"I'm a student of Captain Picard. I believe in team work. You don't have to be chivalrous, Captain, please put me down."

"Deanna, please don't argue with me." That muscle felt like it was on fire. He got across the room without faltering, though.

He glanced at her face as he left the echoes of Data giving orders behind. She met his eyes, solemn and silent, then relaxed in his arms until her cheek rested on his shoulder and her hair brushed his neck. At the end of the long tunnel he stopped; his communicator cheeped, signaling the end of the dampening field. "Carlisle to Picard."

He lowered her slowly until she could stand on one foot. She balanced there while clinging to his arm, glancing at the wall just out of her reach as if wishing she could use it for balance instead. He caught her eye, keeping Carlisle waiting a moment longer. It was all he could do not to put a hand to his back; it hurt like hell.

"Picard here. Nice hearing from you, Commander. Two to beam up."

"Acknowledged."

He saw tears in her eyes, but could do nothing. The transporter had them. Once materialized, he offered an arm, too aware of the attendant to do anything more, and helped her from the room toward sickbay. And now she wouldn't look at him.

"We need to talk," he said, finally regaining his voice as they left a lift.

Her grip on his wrist tightened. "Yes," she said, hoarse and choked with unknown emotion.

"After you get out of sickbay and get some rest. You must be exhausted."

"Yes."

He leaned into her, almost insisting upon taking more of her weight. "I'm very happy you survived -- for a bit I was afraid you hadn't."

"I know," she whispered. "It was what gave me the resolve to walk off the catwalk so I could disable them again. I was afraid they had lied to you and I would be killed, or left behind -- "

It took him aback -- she had told him that was an accident, before. "I wouldn't leave you. Not as long as there was a chance you were still alive."

"I know, sir. I knew you would never leave any of your officers behind. I panicked." She sounded ashamed.

They hesitated outside sickbay as if by mutual consent. Her face red, she seemed fascinated by the gray carpet. Was she embarrassed, or angry? There should be something he could say. Something to do away with the misery. He wished he were better at reassurances, but this was complicated. She knew how he felt already.

Perhaps that was the source of her misery? That thought put a knot in his stomach.

"Under the circumstances, drugged and fighting against opponents both in person and from afar, you did very well, Commander."

A tight smile. She cleared her throat and took a step, opening the doors. Jean-Luc helped her through into the arms of the doctor and nurse who hurried forward, letting go and standing aside until, after she was put on a biobed, she pointed out someone should help him as well.

 

* * *

 

 

  
He paced his quarters with less ire now, but here he was tracing the same rough figure eight in the confines of the two rooms as before. Dr. Mengis had ordered him off duty as well, noting that he was exhausted from stress and lack of sleep. He'd slept, but had awakened at nine hundred hours. He'd never be able to sleep in very long -- too many years of jumping out of bed before shift. That he'd slept that late only indicated how bone-weary he'd been when he fell into bed in the wee hours of the morning after Mengis had seen to the pulled back muscle and sent him to quarters.

The question now was, when she woke up after the sickbay-imposed nap, would she come to see him as she'd promised to do, or decide it was best not to?

When the annunciator went off at long last, he froze, experiencing a moment of relieved surprise, and ordered off the music he'd been listening to. She came in slowly, looking much better, wearing a simple sleeveless dress, patterned with abstract red shapes against a black background.

"Feeling better?" he asked, stopping near the table.

Her smile flickered and faded. "Much, thank you. How's your back?"

"Back to normal."

"I don't understand why you insisted on carrying me out of there. One of the others could have done it."

"I had to do something to save face. You didn't wait for me to rescue you from the Zibyan's torture chamber." It was a bad attempt at humor; she didn't even smile.

"You had to throw your back out completely? How does that help you save face? I could tell you were in pain."

His alarm registered in her eyes. Before she could react, he said, "I'm sorry. I didn't think about that. I wasn't -- _merde_ , I was being an egotistical fool. To think you'd even mentioned sensing it just before, and I still forgot."

"You were being yourself, which I don't mind at all when you aren't trying to hurt yourself -- I'm not going to die of other people's pain. Your back pain wasn't as bad as -- it's over. Don't worry about it."

He set the issue aside, as she wished, though he disliked letting himself off the hook so easily. "I still have the wine," he said, indicating the bottle on the table. "Would you care for some?"

She hesitated too long, and stood too still.

"Or tea," he offered, after no response.

"Did we ever find the Ferengi?" She took slow steps forward, sat at the table, and studied the wine. Taking it as a request, he picked up the corkscrew and worked on opening the bottle.

"We did. deLio's keeping a close eye on them. We'll leave them off on the starbase, along with Ambassador Tevan. I don't think Tevan was too upset about the abrupt termination of negotiations." He sat down, put the bottle aside, gave her the glass, and watched her taste the wine. "What do you think?"

"I haven't had this kind of wine before. It's good. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I'm sorry that I missed dinner," she said faintly.

"I missed it as well. I wasn't hungry."

"Believe me, I would rather have been here than where I was." She ran a thumb around the rim of her glass. "I thought I wouldn't -- " Carefully, she put the glass on the table and covered her mouth, closing her eyes. "I was terrified when I woke up in that cell."

"You escaped, and you saved the rest of us from them. You acted courageously. As usual, when the situation calls for it."

She pressed a knuckle against her lip then dropped her hand. "I couldn't have done that if you hadn't been there. It's easier for me to sense people I know, at a distance."

"I remembered that -- you've said it before. It's why I beamed down. Security wasn't getting anywhere, and the Zibyans kept making excuses. I led the search."

"You did that for me," she said, in a small voice.

He gently held the hand she'd left on the table within reach. "I would have done the same for Data, or Geordi. Or any of my crew." He noticed she couldn't look at him; her eyes moved from their hands to the wine and beyond, seeking a place to rest. "Why are you nervous?"

She looked him in the eye at last. A brave attempt at appearing normal, but it failed; she looked away too soon. "You're holding my hand."

"Am I right? Are you afraid of hurting Beverly?"

"She was so angry, and she wouldn't talk to me. It frightened me. It was so paranoid of me, I thought she -- that she might know how I felt. About you. So much has gone wrong, so many miscommunications. . . ."

He let go of her hand and leaned back, sipping his wine. "What happened with Beverly and I wasn't your fault."

She drank too much in one sip and put the glass down quickly, folding her hands on the edge of the table. "I know that."

Words failed him yet again. He worked through it, knowing she probably sensed his tortuous journey through anxiety to being able to express a coherent thought. "I'm wondering how long you felt this way about me."

Her eyes rolled back before closing again. He saw the small movement in her throat when she swallowed; her voice sounded rough, and she couldn't seem to speak above a murmur. But she answered, and with more honesty than he expected.  "I don't remember the exact day. Last year, sometime. For some reason I just -- I got up and left the bridge, and couldn't stop thinking about the way you smiled. I couldn't sit still in the same room with you for weeks."

He let the silence lengthen, in part because he truly didn't know what to say. Did she mean last calendar year? That could mean anything from six to eighteen months ago -- assuming a Terran calendar. He hadn't noticed anything that might have tipped him off -- but then, he wouldn't have imagined her feeling this way about him in the first place.

Deanna had been in love with him, for months. She wouldn't lie about it. She had been considering leaving -- preparing to leave, he guessed. But from the moment he had sat down with her in the lounge her mood had started to pick up, and she'd insisted she wouldn't leave.

She looked nervous. He felt as anxious as she looked, and he couldn't move. The burden this placed on him, the realization of how much she'd risked -- all she'd done to demonstrate the nature of her empathy had been accompanied by her reassurance that she took nothing for granted, not even this. She would not act based only on what she sensed, even though she had to know by now exactly how he felt about her.

She fidgeted restlessly, rubbing her arms, resuming her explanation after the long composure-seeking pause. "I thought about leaving the ship. I made up my mind at least once a week to do it. I even walked in to talk to you about it, and we ended up talking about something else, work as usual. And then it became second nature to just set it aside, like I do so many other things, and I closed it out completely."

"Why?"

He regretted the whispered query -- she looked away quickly, trying to hide the tears glittering in her eyes. "I had to."

"Because of Beverly? But there was nothing left between us but friendship. You must have known that."

"I made a second career out of keeping myself ignorant of the two of you. I had to, it was so tempting to push one of you to say something. When. . . ." She had to stop and clear her throat lightly. "When I fell in love with you, I knew you and Beverly were close friends -- that's all I knew and I wanted to keep it that way. I knew your relationship might yet turn into something more -- I knew it almost had, once before. Not because of anything either of you said. I guessed, from what I sensed, that it had come to some sort of impasse, but people do change their minds sometimes without warning. The last thing I wanted was to cause anyone pain or discomfort, or lose my best friends."

He refilled their glasses, though neither was really empty, and smiled ruefully. "I could tell how Beverly felt about me before. She let herself be too afraid to do anything about it. Neither one of us wanted to ruin the friendship we had, either. We never got beyond a kiss. It's been nothing but decades of endless mindfuck."

The coined term startled her. She drank nervously -- completely unlike her to be this edgy. She was right, he really didn't know her, though it felt as though he did. This side of her, minus the veneer of the counselor, was unfamiliar territory.

"I don't remember when I stopped thinking about it. I just woke up one morning and realized that I hadn't for a while, that I could look at Beverly and see her as just a friend. A close one, and a dear one, but a friend I could spend time with and not have to put up a front. Not a friend I wanted to make love to. What I felt for her -- it had to be fed to survive. It starved to death."

Deanna nodded and continued her in-depth study of the carpet.

"Who are you, right now?" Her head jerked up in alarm. "You're not being the counselor, or the barefoot girl in the treehouse."

She allowed a pained smile, as her eyes darted away again. "I'm the woman who wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes and thinks about the permutations of her sad love life. The lonely one, who can't keep herself in denial about her feelings any more."

"Tears change the flavor of the wine," he said gently. "I know."

She rolled her eyes and laughed bitterly. "So do I. Do all officers have so much baggage to carry around?"

"I wouldn't know."

"I would. I get to listen to it. It was a rhetorical question."

"Was Will angry when he left?"

"What do you think?" Her tone dipped into bitterness, a little scorn.

Jean-Luc sagged. Of course he knew Will had been angry, back when he'd decided to leave; hearing Deanna's tone of voice confirmed what Jean-Luc had suspected, however. Something had happened between the counselor and first officer that remained an issue, at least enough of one to put an edge in her voice. An argument -- and if 'last year' meant before Will's departure. . . . Best not to think about that. 

"I know we both want to keep our friends, but it won't be the same, regardless of what we do. Both of them expected us to dispense second chances, after they treated us carelessly. I do care for Beverly -- I almost gave in to her, because of that. I might have, if I weren't a different person than I was. Too much has happened. Too many changes. And to try to look at her that way, again, felt like -- like I was opening the cellar door, after years of dust had crept in, and finding the wine casks were all bone dry."

"Why didn't you discuss it with your counselor, rather than walk around with the pain for months?"

"The counselor didn't seem to notice my pain, and I didn't feel like talking about it. It didn't interfere with my work."

"I noticed it," she said, a little flushed -- though that might have been the wine. This time, she reached for the bottle. He intercepted her hand, trapping her fingers and leaving their hands on the table. She ducked her head.

"What are you unsure of? Or am I being too pushy?"

"There's a lot to be unsure of, Jean-Luc. I know you can probably handle putting me in harm's way."

"I have a great deal of faith in your abilities as an officer. I've even seen you wield a pipe with finesse." A shadow of grief in her eyes reminded him that hadn't been pleasant for her. "Sorry. I realize that wasn't easy."

"It was necessary. Simply stunning them would have resulted in reinforcements arriving that much more quickly, because a stun doesn't hurt enough to stop the rest of them. I couldn't let them trap us, and I knew there were more of our crew on the way."

"I told you I needed your expertise on this mission."

"As often happens, you turned out to be correct."

He signed. "We've gotten off track. What are you unsure of? Me?"

"I don't know -- I didn't expect this. There are consequences, if we -- I couldn't be your counselor."

A seizure of panic constricted his chest before he realized what she meant. He let go of her fingers and leaned back, running his hands down his face. "You mean my personal counselor -- not that you have to leave the posting."

"If I couldn't leave you for that teaching position at the Academy, what makes you think I'd abandon ship that easily? There's another counselor on this ship. You would have to get used to him."

"Yes, but he has a much less appealing shoulder to cry on."

"I didn't say you couldn't still do that."

He laughed dryly, but amusement died a swift death. He stared at her and knew -- she wasn't going to run away this time. All the elephants were on the table, and her tear-spangled eyes held no fear any more. He struggled to set aside his own remaining anxiety, and hoped she wouldn't call him on it.

"Did they really offer you a teaching position?" he asked, just to shift the conversation.

"Actually, they wanted me to be head of the department. I really thought about it. Teaching would give me a break from the war stories and battle fatigue. But it's as we said before, things will change. We'll get back to exploration again. I enjoy being aboard when we're not in battle or working through the aftermath." She straightened her skirt and folded her hands in her lap, looking down at them. "What's wrong?"

So much for hoping. "Wrong?"

"Jean-Luc," she chided softly.

"I suppose the most difficult thing for me to grasp in all this is what you see in me." He had to look away, and turned his glass in his fingertips where it sat on the table. "I wouldn't have imagined us. Even this last few weeks -- I tried, but... I thought you might be missing Will."

The smile vanished. "Will wanted something I wasn't willing to give him." Deanna half-closed her eyes and ran a fingertip along the edge of the table idly. "Don't waste your time worrying about him. He might be upset, but it would last a few minutes, and he'd give you that shit-eating grin and clap you on the shoulder."

"That grin -- you know, Data was grinning like that. When he gave me your gift -- "

"He gave you my gift?" Her eyes flicked to his in surprise.

"He said you asked him to."

She sat upright, shocked. "I never asked him to do anything. I left that box outside your quarters, on the floor out of the way of foot traffic. No one travels this corridor unless they're going to senior staff quarters or one of the conference rooms. I thought it would be safe."

"Oh, hell." Jean-Luc laughed at it -- it was either that or go dismember the android. "Data. All this time he's played innocent android. Get Riker off the ship, and he falls right into Will's footsteps, down to the practical jokes. He gave it to me in the middle of a report in my ready room. He did it on purpose, I'll bet, to fish for information."

"Did he get any?" Deanna grinned too, no doubt aware that his apparent anger really covered begrudging amusement.

"Oh... I might have told him not to plan the wedding just yet."

 "You really said that to him? You admitted there was something more than friendship going on?"

He poured the last of the wine, splitting it evenly between them, and stood the bottle up with a thunk in the center of the table. "I thought you engineered the whole thing. I thought if you had Data in on it, that he'd tell you how I reacted. But you wouldn't do that. My paranoia at work. "

She sighed and closed her eyes. "Jean-Luc, why would I do that when I can tell how you feel?"

"I thought it might be your way of gauging how serious I was, or possibly your way of getting even with me for what I said after the briefing."

"And what the hell was that about? You could have waited -- why did you throw all that in my face before I was supposed to beam down. . . that was the test, wasn't it?"

He rolled the neck of the wine glass between his flattened hands, watching the lazy slosh of the wine. "For both of us. I had to know what I would do. I had to put it out on the table before, so you understood that I knew -- I wanted to see if it would affect how either of us performed. I didn't realize it would turn into such a dire situation. It was a great relief that I had a valid reason for beaming down when you went missing."

"You wouldn't have beamed down otherwise?"

The answer burned in his throat. What he could manage turned out to be a reversal. "What would you have done in my place? If I were being held captive?"

She chewed her lip. "I would have done what was necessary to find you. But I would have been able to find you more easily than you found me."

He closed his eyes and rubbed his palms down his thighs, using the sensation of the coarse black fabric of the pants he wore against his palms to distract himself.

"I'm never going to test you, Jean-Luc," she said after a moment. "That's the last thing I would do."

"I think I would have known that, if I hadn't been so anxious. Now that we've discussed it I'm not sure how I thought that at all."

"We're back around to defining parameters," she said softly.

"I came looking for you, you know. That night in the lounge." He wrapped his hands over his kneecaps and kept his eyes shut. Looking at her at this point would be a bad idea. "You were avoiding me. Making excuses not to pull bridge duty when I was on -- you were careful, but I know you better than that. I started to miss your company. And that made me think about why, and that led to the same sorts of things you claim -- deep dark thoughts in the middle of the night, about decisions and mistakes, and having no one to drink wine with at the end of the day. So I decided to have it out with you, either personally or professionally, and get it out of my system. I'm sure you've had patients fall for you before -- "

"Stop it, please."

His eyes opened on a distraught Deanna trying to find a safe spot to focus her eyes.

"I don't know you well enough to predict the future, but I like the woman I saw on the holodeck. I admire the officer I saw on Zibyan, enough to want to push you to further your career. I don't care about the rumors. I think we can work around the elephants. I'm not going anywhere, and if I did I'd invite you along."

"Fraternizing -- "

"I refuse to play games again. I'm patient, Deanna, but I'm not as young as I was, or as careless. You know me -- what do you think? Could we be together?"

"Do you think I would have let you get this far if I didn't think so?" She sounded a bit stronger now, less timid.

"Then let's talk about it." He reached for her but stopped short of touching her and let his hand fall into his lap. The pain in her face echoed what he'd felt before. "You told me I think too much. I do think too much, about too many things. There is one thing I don't have to think about at all. I wanted you, before I came looking for you. I was. . . afraid."

"You've been trying to tell me without telling me. I told you that I wouldn't react. I can't assume anything, Jean-Luc," she whispered.

"I can't, either. I have to know if you love me as much as I love you." The strangled admission hurt -- or was it that his lungs refused to take another breath until he heard the answer?

Her tragic eyes searched for a safe place to land, finally returning to his face, and she reached out as if needing to hang on to something for support. He caught her hand.

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you that," she said, wavering. "When I'm this emotional I can't sense much. But I do love you."

"Stay with me. Please."

She knew what he meant, of course, and froze in place, eyes wide and looking completely disarmed. He'd seen her with lovers before -- her interactions with them in public, anyway. Insecurity wasn't like her. He watched tears tremble on her lashes, gathering on the brink of the fall, and managed to loosen his grip on her fingers. Unable to breathe, he waited, her hand resting lightly on his palm.

The slow flattening of her fingers tore at him. Her palm was smaller; she slid her hand along his and back again, as if testing the texture of his skin. His throat went sore for trying to swallow and breathe and remain silent while withholding the anticipation and staving off the fear that she would leave and he'd find her resignation on his desk in the morning. She had planned to leave. She could still leave.

"We can work this out," he whispered.

Her tears spilled, taking a little makeup with them. With an abrupt movement she took his wrist and brought his hand to her face.

The smoothness of her cheek and the moistness of tears were expected; the trembling and her apparent struggle for control were not. She slid to the edge of her chair, leaning into his hand, eyes tightly shut and more tears coming forth. He wasn't aware of his own movement until he was kissing her cheek, with the faint, clean smell of her shampoo and the more physical sensation of her hair tickling his nose. She let go of his wrist, eyes wide and glittering, and it took only a turn of the head to meet her lips with his.

"No," she gasped.

He pulled away, turning his chair, intending to escape. Her grip on his arm stopped him when he rose; she stood as well, holding him back.

"Jean-Luc, please -- don't -- "

"Don't play games with me," he rasped.

Their eyes met as he turned back. Tears streaked her cheeks but she seemed to have regained control of herself.

"You knew how I felt when I met you in the lounge a few days ago. You've known how I felt all along. I've told you now. You say you feel the same. What do you want me to do now? I'm not going to ignore it."

"I wouldn't ask you to. I don't want to, either." Her fingers closed tighter on his arm.

He had never been more conscious of her physically; she stood so close it would have taken little effort to hold her. He watched the movement of tendons in her throat as she swallowed and imagined kissing her skin there, and caught himself leaning in to do it. Instead, he touched her face, traced her cheek and jaw, caressed her throat, and left his hand on her shoulder.

"Don't be afraid of me," he murmured.

"I'm more afraid of me, actually."

"I don't understand why you're afraid at all."

She smiled and shrugged, looking down. Her tone lightened. "Love is a terrifying thing. I used to wonder if it was worth it. I think, if you fall in love with the right person, it can be worth it."

"How does one know if he's fallen in love with the right person?"

"That's the hard part. One doesn't know. Trial and error is the only way to find out."

"I hadn't gotten the idea that you considered men as trials. "

"They can be," she whispered. The pressure of her fingers on his bicep eased. Then she was running both hands up his arms, his shoulders, behind his head, and leaning in. "But I appreciate a challenge."

Her lips brushed his, reestablished contact, and stayed. He put his arms around her automatically. The kiss deepened. It was better than he could have imagined. She felt so vibrant in his arms, and her mouth tasted like wine. When they parted she didn't pull away very far; the tip of her nose bumped his.

"No error here." Her words felt warm against his cheek.

"You're sure about that?" he asked.

"I am today. I know you -- I know how you feel." She pressed closer to him, kissing his cheek, running her fingers over his brow. "I wanted to stay in that room with you on Zibyan. I wanted you to stay, after you showed me the treehouse and walked me home. I wanted you to notice me a long time ago, but I thought you would never let yourself do anything about it even if you did."

"You knew how I felt," he said, holding her close. She had her hands on his head, keeping him there while she leaned in and pressed her cheek to his. "You knew, but you actually believed I wouldn't want to do anything about it? You didn't come talk to me because you thought I would reject you."

She sighed heavily. "You talk too much."

"So make me stop."

That wasn't hard to do. When he desperately needed air she pulled away first. They stood for a while, nose to nose, savoring the moment.

"Computer, lights off."

She glanced up at the viewports. "Why did you do that?"

"I've never seen you by starlight."

"Do I look so different?"

"Different, but no less beautiful."

Her eyes widened as she met his gaze. Another slow taste of her mouth escalated things considerably. He felt for the fastener on her dress as they swayed together. Though he wasn't in a hurry to actually find a way to remove her clothing, she helped, showing not a qualm about stripping in front of him -- she dropped one item after the next on the couch nearby, until she stood naked in the pale light of stars at warp. While he tried to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, she began working on his clothing.

She stopped, one hand flat against his stomach, the other gripping his waistband. Her eyes searched his face. "There is something amusing you?"

At least she didn't address the anxiety, which far outweighed the amusement. "I amuse me."

Her knowing smile didn't help. "I'm nervous, too."

"Liar." He caught her hands as she pulled away. "Sorry. Can you tell I'm out of practice?"

"No." The wry amusement in her voice was too obvious. "I'm sure you can't tell I am, too."

Her eyes caught his again. The anxiety dwindled while he wandered lost in the depths of Betazoid eyes. Falling into them for a while took no effort. He put a palm to her starlit face and kissed her again; her fingers played with the hair at the back of his neck, making him shiver. She made a soft noise in the back of her throat as she surrendered herself.

He spent a few seconds wondering if he should have drawn her out more, perhaps spent more time discussing things. But her hands had made their way down to finish with his clothing. One hand slid down the back of his thigh, pushing his pants ahead of it, and the other came up the front, feeling its way to his cock. Her fingertip explored gently, tracing veins and coming to rest in that small indentation on the bottom edge of the glans. He shuddered when her fingers closed around his erection and stroked. She let go, pulled her mouth from his, and waited, cheek to cheek, pressing her body against his. That wasn't helping, either. Coarse, curly hair brushing him was nearly as bad as being teased by her expert fingers. She couldn't continue this way, or it would be over before it started.

He picked her up. Suddenly enough that she gasped and her arms went around his neck for balance, and as he hurried into the bedroom, she said, "I understand, Jean-Luc. You don't have -- "

"Stop it, damn you," he grumbled. "I don't need your sympathy."

"Did I offer it? I must have missed that."

He laid her on the bed and kissed her. Seconds later, he forgot all else again, and she somehow maneuvered him on his back. In the near-darkness, with her face in shadow, he couldn't see a thing, but she seemed prone to making satisfied little noises in the back of her throat when pleased, so he could only surmise that slipping over him and sending him into a delirious momentary high of pleasure upon penetration made her very happy.

Too out of practice, and too keyed up -- he had no self-control any more, it took very little time to come. She didn't seem to care; she made the most of him while she could, and nuzzled up afterward, kissing his face and practically purring. She must have been pretending, and as he started to dislike that, she stopped trying to kiss him and curled up on his chest as if content. He liked that well enough, but couldn't quit feeling inadequate.

After a few moments, she slid off, falling on her side and inching up to put her head on the pillow. Her hand went to his chest to stroke and play with chest hair. "You know I wouldn't want you to feel this way."

He had to take a few moments to compose himself, then realized again, she would know how that affected him. Rolling to face her, he studied the curves of her body, limned by starlight, and caressed her from shoulder to hip, enjoying the smooth expanse against his palm.

"I think if I tried, I could clear out most of my closet," he murmured.

Head propped on a bent arm, she gave him a fonder smile than he'd been accustomed to receiving from her. "Not right now, I hope."

"No." He rolled toward her for a kiss, sent his hand down her body, and explored with his fingers, finding ways to make her moan. It had been a long time since he set himself to the task of pleasing a woman, but she was an enthusiastic partner. Hearing her cries as he used his mouth on her satisfied him -- it was as they resettled in the bed together, finding comfortable places for limbs while maintaining contact, that it sank in at last. This was unlike other encounters. It gave him a jolt back to reality.

"Jean-Luc," she murmured, questioning. The post-coital bliss was gone; her eyes were serious.

"It's going to take a while to get used to not having to tell you everything." He felt the muscles of her shoulder tense under his hand. "I know you don't take things for granted. I love you, Deanna," he murmured, drawing her within the curve of his arm and testing the smoothness of her back against his palm. The soft glow in her eyes and matching smile answered the confession. Then the smile became mischievous.

"I know."

"Damned empath." He couldn't quite sound angry enough.

"But it feels so good to hear you say it," she whispered. _i love you, jean-luc_

The words tickled his mind even as she slipped an arm around him, caressed his shoulder, and nestled closer, tracing spirals on his back.

"We have a lot to talk about." The words tickled his skin just before her tongue -- why was she tasting his chest? Not that he cared. She fit nicely within his arm, and shivered under the touch of his hand running down her back.

"Tomorrow."

"You're falling asleep." She sounded mildly incredulous.

"I've been under a lot of stress -- not to mention the excitement. It isn't every day that I get to unwrap a birthday present."

"It isn't your birthday."

"It could be."

"You didn't unwrap me, either."

He opened his eyes to find her smirking at him from close range, her head on his pillow and her hand still caressing his arm and chest. "All technicalities I'm ignoring at the moment."

"Denial -- shame on you."

"It only proves just how much I need a counselor, doesn't it?"

Her giggle ended in a yawn. "Almost as much as she needs you?"

The long look at each other was interrupted by her next yawn, quickly followed by one from him. He smiled, resting his head in a pillow of her hair, nose against her jaw.

"What's so funny?" she mumbled, her lips fluttering along his cheek.

"This is the most hair I've had on my head in years."


End file.
